Habits
by friedmermaidtails
Summary: Smithers is forced to reevaluate his life and his feelings for Mr. Burns when a cancer diagnosis quakes him to his core. Everything he thought he had known, every year - decade - spent in servitude for a man he could never have, would come to a head during a night of careless, drunken mistakes with the only person to ever provide him solace. Perhaps it wasn't so much of a mistake?
1. A Midsummer Night's Dream

"Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star.

It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago.

Maybe the star doesn't even exist anymore. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything."

― Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

* * *

Chapter One

A Midsummer Night's Dream

On nights as dark and still as these, it felt as though there was no purpose. Perhaps there wasn't after all this time; perhaps it wasn't worth the wait of years – decades. Yet, he continued to wait with the stubbornness of a mule and the persistence of an eternal flame. Through gales of the strongest hurricanes, whilst being doused and drenched in water, or by being stomped by the feet of giants, the flame remained ever-bright.

His heart drummed against his ribs, which ached as the tempo of the organ fell sporadic. A heart attack seemed plausible, yet so did a violent panic attack – but those things had nothing to do with the arrhythmia. A true arrhythmia would have seen him dead long ago; this was no natural heart problem, but one man-made by himself and the one he ached for. The one that made his heart drum out of sync, his lungs inflate with air that he never could fully release, his head swim through depths that'd see the most savvy sailor dead, was the same one who left his feelings for all others numb and obsolete.

No suitor before had ever crippled him in a way that made him that much more efficient. The frail body that danced so delicately across the landscapes of his dreams and nightmares alike was, too, the strong mastermind that won him over with swift wit. An older man, old enough to be his own grandfather with a few extra years tacked on, captured his heart without even knowing it. C. Montgomery Burns – tyrannical and cynic to most, distinguished and prevailing to him – had taken Smithers' heart hostage years ago, caged it like a bird with clipped wings and vocal cords snapped and frayed.

Smithers sunk into a plush chair down the hall from his boss' extravagant bedroom, unable to leave Burns' Manor due to in climate weather that would surely have him dead. The multiple clocks strewn about the manor neared three in the morning, each tick of their hands beckoning for Smithers to join them in a wasteland of dreams. His lids were heavy and pleaded for surrender, which Smithers denied them. Sleep wasn't in the equation, not when it could come between him and his duty to serve.

Burns had been asleep hours before, nuzzled into bed with childhood teddy bear, Bobo, tucked under chin and clung to chest. Chances of his waking before a sensible hour of morning were slim, but slim was all Smithers needed to will himself through the night. He was there to serve, to protect, and he was there to see that the elder was at the utmost level of comfort.

Should Burns awaken, his assistant would be there, ready and willing to perform whatever task would be set before him. No matter how trivial or demeaning, he'd be over the moon to achieve absolute perfection. It was his job – or so he had convinced himself (and others) over the years – to risk life and limb for the sake of Burns' comfort and happiness.

The house settled with faint noises that performed a creaky lullaby, worsening the overwhelming desire of sleep held over Smithers. He ran a hand over his naturally jaundiced face, removing his glasses to clean them on the tail of his shirt. Touch seemed to be the only way he would see the sunrise; he ran hands over face, rubbed arms and kneecaps, grazed a hand through his off-brunette, buzz-cut locks. Each motion carried out with the simple purpose of fighting a losing battle.

A spark of electricity from the sky rammed itself into the ground, a clap of thunder following shortly thereafter that succeeded in rousing the man cramped in the chair. Smithers returned his smudged glasses to his face and stood from the plush cushions; he approached the window with a bit of caution, drawing the blinds down and the heavy draperies shut.

"Smithers!"

The echo of the voice seemed to crawl through the walls, wriggling behind expensive wallpaper in an attempt to break free and wreak havoc on unsuspecting ears; it would never bother Smithers, however, for his ears were always suspecting. His senses always revved in the highest gear when it came to anything to do with Burns.

He sprung from the chair, a rush of energy coursing through him like a miracle. His feet tapped against the polished marble tiles that stretched out from one corner of the upstairs wing to the opposite side a good ways apart. Smithers was careful and decisive with his motions as he seemed to glide along the floor in absolute silence, the type of silence that so often drug his imagination into depths that would make the crudest of the crude blush.

With gentle motions, he opened the door and entered the room. He gazed at the slight frame of his boss, his unwitting love, and the pastel pink nightshirt that hung loosely upon boney shoulders. Dark shadows cast upon the man to create such beautiful hallows in a worn body, then, as lightning struck the hilltops beyond the windows, the shadows cowarded in the illumination, which projected the softer curves of a rather sharp-boned body.

"Smithers," the elder whispered in near-hiss fashion, beckoning his assistant to him with a curling claw-like index finger, "I'd like you to close those curtains for me; all this lightning and bustle…. How's a man ever supposed to sleep in these conditions?"

"Sure thing, sir."

Smithers used the flashes from the lightning as a source of light as he stalked through the otherwise pitch black room. He reached the oversized window, untying the drawbacks from the heavyweight fabric of the curtains and drawing them shut. What was once a dark room became almost desolate and non-existent, only being illuminated when Smithers lit a candle that sat atop a nearby table.

He turned to take his leave, letting the candle's dim flicker guide him through the room. A passing glance distorted by candle light was the only parting image he could salvage of his boss. He smiled despite knowing the darkness concealed it, and he tilted his head toward Burns.

"If there's anything else I can do, sir, don't hesitate to let me know."

"Now, now, Smithers," the partially-balding man dragged out his words in a sarcastic drawl, "no one likes a suck-up."

An under breath sigh was followed by a forced tone of professionalism, "right… sorry, sir."

The younger stalked toward the door, flickering flame and bright blazes from the raging storm leading the way, with an unusual feeling in that damned heart of his. A shift of the mattress caught his ear as he held a limp grip on the brass knob of the door. He turned his head, chin to shoulder, as he faced Mr. Burns, and noticed that same pointed finger curling in gesture for him to return.

Burns possessed a slight smirk, one that seemed a bit sinister yet lustful, "I haven't asked you to leave yet, Smithers."

A fragile hand patted the silk comforter that stretched across the bed fit for a king. His fingers sprawled upon the comforter, rubbing to enjoy the sensation of such a fine-quality fabric, "sit."

Eyes wide behind glasses that sloped toward the tip of his nose, Smithers turned about in an awkward attempt to find someone (aside from himself) that his boss could possibly be talking to. There was no one (unless one was to count Bobo); only himself and his heart that somehow slithered to rest upon his sleeve.

His breath hitched, his face grew warm and rosy as revealed by the delicate glow of candlelight, and his voice became the stammers of a child who not yet knew how to speak. Regardless, he sat where instructed as a young lap dog would do to please their owner. He did anything to make sure each need, want, and fancy of Burns' was met, caring not of what it consisted of.

"There, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" Burns spoke, that smirk deepening as his hands steeple-d over his chest. "Answer me something, Smithers," he continued, sadistically enjoying the utter surprise that stretched across his assistant's rosy face, "do you find me… attractive?"

"A-attractive?"

"Yes, Smithers," the elder responded with a hasty chortle as he carefully articulated the next word in his arsenal, "a-ttrac-tive."

Smithers' heart leapt into his throat, forming a noose around his windpipes. His breath fell choppy, lips moving without words as he tried to gather what to say, "o-of course, sir, you're one of the most dashing men to set foot in Springfield."

It wasn't an atypical thing for him to say, as Burns often fished for compliments in some roundabout way. In fact, it was quite normal for Smithers to shuck out compliments toward his boss, wanting to make the silver-haired man realize those deep, burning desires within him without revealing the entirety of his feelings.

"Is that so?"

That sharp hiss struck Waylon's heart in a way that made it quiver, thumping against the bones in his chest. A splay of jaundice talons formed to the broadness of his shoulder, curling into the crinkled suit that he had been unable to change from.

"Oh, most certainly, sir…"

Burns interrupted, holding up a hand with his palm facing Smithers in a suggestion for the younger to shush, "enough with all this "sir" business, Waylon."

"Sorry, s-," he began while biting his lower lip to prevent the word his boss suddenly harbored displeasure for from seeping passed his lips. His eyes darted from one dark corner to another as he felt the space between the two of them being closed, Burns fussing with the purple bowtie clipped to the collar of Smithers' shirt. "Erm, what exactly is this about, sir?"

"Ah-ah-ah," Burns tsk-ed, lowering his head in mock disappointment, "please, Monty is much better suited for this occasion, don't you think?"

Smithers tried to swallow, his throat as dry and barren as the desert, as Burns inched ever closer, popping off the bowtie and undoing a top button or two.

"A-and what occasion might that be?" He fumbled over his words, trying to force them over a dry tongue. His hands grew clammy, sweat began to bead from pure excitement alone, and his entire body felt ravished with fever.

"Oh, you know…" the elder trailed off with a low, gruff chuckle. "Smithers, where's my breakfast?"

"Ah, huh?" Smithers managed through uneven breaths that caused his muscular chest to graze against Mr. Burns' boney one.

"Breakfast. Where is it?"

The blush on Smithers' face deepened as raw confusion consumed his fogged mind. He tried to understand what was happening, unable to grasp the most simple of information as he was straddled by the vessel of his yearnings.

"For the love of –," Burns grumbled as his spidery fingers clamped over his brow for a moment. He took the rolled up newspaper from the pocket of his robe, swiftly smacking Waylon's shoulder with great force for such weak hands. "Ah good, you're awake."

Half-lidded eyes with crooked glasses before them stared up at the robed man with the utmost befuddlement. Smithers' chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow movements and his heart was near to burst as his body flung itself into the upright position.

"Now, about that breakfa-."

"A dream…?" A dry-mouthed response spoken solely to the air, walls, and furniture. "It was just a dream."

"Ackhem…" Burns scoffed with phlegm behind the strained action. "Come now, Smithers, time waits for no man."

* * *

"The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world's existence.

All these half-tones of the soul's consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are."

― Fernando Pessoa


	2. Routine Visit

"There is a space between man's imagination and man's attainment that may only be traversed by his longing."

― Kahlil Gibran, Sand and Foam

* * *

Chapter Two

Routine Visit

A large skillet sat atop a low-burning flame over the stove as Smithers piled various ingredients into his arms, cradling eggs and other breakfast goodies. His mind was frazzled as he had slept in, leaving the daggers of Burns' stares lodged in his body. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand, those piercing black eyes tearing him to shreds, glaring at him with impatience and disappointment.

Burns' hands were clasped on the tabletop, fingers laced around one another. The empty plate and arrangement of knives and forks before him only made him that much more annoyed. He fussed with one of the forks for a moment, setting it back in its proper place with a heavy sigh.

"You slept awfully late, Smithers," he hissed with an arched brow, pressing the issue. The index fingers of each hand tucked under his chin as his eyes tauntingly watched Smithers race about the kitchen. Burns' voice shifted to light-hearted joking, albeit still as cold and calculating as ever. "Didn't sneak away to party while I slept, did you?"

The chuckle that followed sent an unnerving chill through Smithers' heart, which fell into another wonky sort of rhythm. The younger continued to beat eggs against the counter and crack them into the heated pan, using the actions as a tactic to avoid the icy smirk of his boss.

"Well, Smithers?" Burns pressed further, the smirk deepening at the sides of his thin lips. "Come now, old Burnsie won't get mad."

"In a rather spirited mood this morning, are we, sir?" Smithers spoke with a dullness that well concealed the true fear of God that that damn smirk shot into his heart.

He scraped a mound of eggs onto the fine-china plates that were used daily in Burns' Manor, following them up with strips of crisped bacon and golden toast. He carried the plate effortlessly and set it before his boss, standing back with hands clasped behind his back as he waited for a status report of the meal. Burns' coughed suggestively as he waved a cloth napkin in front of Smithers, who quickly snatched the fabric and tucked it neatly into the collar of the elder's suit.

"Well, you're still on your toes," Burns commented, a satisfied smile on his face. He ran a fork through the eggs, making a few comments – some good, others not so much – about them, yet he continued to shovel them back nonetheless.

"Don't forget, sir," the ever-vigilant assistant added while Burns' mouth was too full to protest, "after breakfast, I'll be escorting you to your doctor's appointment."

The half-chewed food went down hard, Monty's eyes clutched tightly as he did everything to prevent himself from choking. In a childish manner, he threw his fork into the untouched food that was left on the plate; he shoved the plate away, removed the napkin from his suit and covered the leftovers with it, and stood up from the table. He fussed with his tie as he began to stroll out of the room and head to the security of his bedroom. He scowled as he sensed his puppy of a subordinate matching his stride step-for-step.

"Sir, please don't make this more difficult than it has to be."

"I'll never understand why you make me go to that quack-job every month-,"

"Three months," Smithers piped in only for Burns to wave a frail hand in a hush gesture.

"Not the point," Burns hurled with a bitter sharpness from his tongue. "Where was I? Ah, right, right – quack-job, yes…. I don't see why you insist on me seeing him every _three_ months when I am the picture of health. Look at me, healthy as a horse!"

Smithers observed the slight frame, a frown of doubt upon his face. He placed a hand on Burns' shoulder in a casual attempt to lead him back to the breakfast table. The younger's eyes stayed focused on the man with the boney features, near-translucent jaundiced skin, and heavily-thinning hair, and it filled him with unexplainable desire and concern.

"Mr. Burns, it's just precautionary. You can never be too careful, especially at your age."

Oh, how he had wished that final tidbit would back-peddle into his mouth. His lips became a thin slash when his boss turned offended eyes toward him. Smithers' hands rose in defense and he fiddled nervously with his glasses, "n-not that you're old or anything…."

"At ease, Smithers," Burns shushed, holding the palm of his hand to his lackey. "I've come to realize that I'm not the young buck I once was. But, you're only as old as you feel, and I feel young enough to never see a doctor again."

Smithers' arms crossed and his eyes rolled. Burns always made a fuss, forcing his poor associate to practically rip teeth from bone to make any progress.

"Sir…" His voice was a bit stern, but he carried it with respect and warmth. "It's just routine. You'll be in and out in five minutes."

"Yes," Burns scoffed, finger pressed to Smithers' forehead, "I see they've gotten to you, too, eh?"

A silent roll of the eyes was the tension given answer. Breakfast had wound down as the plate of once hot goodies turned to cold, grease-soaked slop. What once was a meal fit for a king was now only suitable for the raccoon prowlers of the night. Smithers scraped the grease-laden heap into a nearby trash can and set the plate and silverware in the sink to wash up later.

Waylon took a glance to his watch, fretting as the time of Burns' appointment drew nearer. He cleared his throat, threw an awkwardly stern look toward his boss, and placed an arm around the man's frail shoulders in an attempt to keep him from straying. A firm grip and a steady paced step seemed to keep the elder in line for the most part, though there were moments when Burns tried to regain his freedom.

"You'll be fine, sir," came the strict-toned sympathy of Smithers as he helped Burns into the backseat of a lavish limousine.

The only answer given was a pouty scoff from the man in the backseat, who folded his arms over his chest accordingly. He propped his elbow upon what little space the car door had to offer as he glared out the window. His brows were knitted tightly over icy eyes that burned the souls of any who had ever crossed him, eyes that could damn them to Hell with a gaze that lasted but a moment too long.

Burns muttered, grumbled, and griped for the larger majority of the trip, only stopping for brief moments to recollect his thoughts after losing track of them. He had grown a tendency of doing that more frequently, which did nothing to soothe Smithers' worries over the aging man. The charade of just common check-ups had always seemed to work, as Burns had begun to forget that it was the same excuse his young executive's assistant used each time an appointment came and went.

Burns sighed, chin resting in palm, and stared at shined shoes tapping impatiently against the floorboard, "if anything happens to me in there, it'll be your job…"

The threat, while mostly empty, had a way of creeping into the front seat and squirming its way into Waylon's head; words that spun around on a broken record player in a substantially more devilish voice than they had been delivered. Smithers checked the rearview mirror to yield into the on-coming traffic only to catch a glimpse of depressive hatred spread upon the aged, wrinkled face that sat behind him.

* * *

Time seemed at a stand-still as Burns sat hunched in one of the always-too-small-for-anyone chairs of the waiting room. He twiddled his thumbs, skimmed his eyes over the scarcely-decorated walls, thumbed through magazines without even opening them – anything to pass the time or to possibly come up with an escape plan. Smithers sat patiently next to him, diligently reading on one of the few varieties of magazines every doctor's office seemed to carry.

The calmness that surrounded his assistant made Burns turn his nose up spitefully, fully irritated by the tranquility Smithers showed in such a desolate place filled with nothing but illness and death. The elder turned in his chair to the door that stayed ever-still, taunting him as what laid behind it seemed non-existent. However, that was but a dream, for beyond that door laid waiting for him a bustle of nurses that would poke him and prod him, taking his arms hostage as they jabbed in needles and drew out blood. He cringed at the thought, quickly pushing it from his mind as he rested his palms on his jagged kneecaps, massaging the joints before attempting to stand.

"I think I'll just go out for some fresh air," he said with a swift tongue and a swifter glide of the feet.

Smithers, always keen and on alert, thrust a hand forward and caught the man by the crook of his elbow, "sit down."

His groan sounded like that of an irritated mother whose children were constantly sneaking away and putting objects of no purpose into their mouths. He pulled Burns back into the chair next to him, keeping their arms locked tightly to prevent future attempts of escape.

"Smithers, what do you think you're doing?" Burns hissed with the tongue of a serpent as he, by some miracle, broke free of the man-made restraint. He snatched a boney hand back, rubbing the elbow that had been prisoner only moments before. "I'm a grown man, I think I know how to behave myself in a doctors' office!"

As if on cue, a gentle and feminine voice called out to him from the door that seemed to have a grudge toward patients, "Mr. Burns? The doctor is ready for you now."

"Smithers," the elder announced in a low-key whisper as he slowly slid toward to the floor, "make no sudden movements."

"Oh, for the love of -," the man in the wireframe glasses groaned as he ran a hand through his off-brunette tresses. "It's going to be fine, sir," a forced, toothy grin, "just fine."

* * *

"The ever more sophisticated weapons piling up in the arsenals of the wealthiest and the mightiest can kill the illiterate, the ill, the poor and the hungry, but they cannot kill ignorance, illness, poverty or hunger."

― Fidel Castro


	3. Lashing Out

"I lie to myself all the time.

But I never believe me."

― S.E. Hinton, The Outsiders

* * *

Chapter Three

Lashing Out

The morning had slowly slipped into afternoon as Smithers tapped his toes impatiently upon the floor. He crossed one leg over the other, anxiously swapping them every few minutes. His eyes trailed along the white walls that seemed to stretch longer than the building itself, almost seeming endless. The scenery wasn't anything he would have chosen, and he had his doubts that a few cheerful aspects would kill; if anything, it would make some patients see the beauty beyond their illnesses.

The magazine he held grew stale after the fourth time of flipping through the pages. His eyes had grown to the size of the font, making his vision squirm when he glanced back up to reality. Setting the magazine on the table nearby, he stood and strolled over to the coffee machine on a table in the corner of the room. It seemed lonely and untouched as many people complained it was too strong or too gritty, but he didn't much care either way. He would drink it regardless of its taste; after all he was only using it as a way to cope with the wait.

Smithers poured the dark liquid into a Styrofoam cup, which wasn't even large enough to hold more than an ounce at the most – a shot glass of coffee, really. He tore open multiple packages of powdered creams and artificial sugars, knowing that no matter how much of each he used, the coffee would still displease his palate. The cup radiated the heat to his hands, scalding him at first but soon comforting him, as he picked it up and carried it out into the hallway.

He paced a few steps in one direction, then a few in the other. Guilt ate away at him just as the heat of the coffee ate the lining of his throat; he had told Burns the visit was routine, that it would be over within a few minutes – hours had passed since then. However, had Smithers not stretched the truth a bit, Burns would have fought him tooth-and-nail at the thought of spending an entire day cooped up in a room with someone he considered unqualified.

"Mr. Smithers?" The familiar voice of Dr. Hibbert rang out to the man pacing the halls. "We've got Burns calm enough for you to come back now. He put up a good fight, but we managed to reel him in – after the sedatives kicked in, that is."

The last bit was muttered in a rather playful whisper, but Smithers had heard it nonetheless. He wasn't particularly happy about the use of sedatives, however it was understandable as Burns was oftentimes stubborn as an ox. He had never made it easy for Waylon, and the odds were that he had made it that much more difficult for the doctors and nurses. In his mind, Smithers knew sedatives were quite possibly the only way to get Burns in a cooperative state of mind, even if only a slight one.

Dr. Hibbert guided him down the hall, patients groaning in other rooms on either side of them. Smithers glanced into a few of the rooms, assessing the care the patients seemed to be getting in order to determine if it was up to his high standards for his boss. Despite the pain they seemed to be in, the staff seemed to be swift and nurturing, easing the assistant's worries for a moment.

"Now," the doctor began with an unusually upbeat tone for such a depressing atmosphere, "you were explaining some of the symptoms over the phone; have any of those gotten worse, subsided, gone away completely?"

Smithers' mind had wandered, drifted into the rooms of other patients, and his thoughts were clearly elsewhere as it took Hibbert's snapping fingers to bring the assistant back to reality.

"Uh, huh?" Smithers questioned without a shred of intelligence behind it. He stared blankly at the doctor's befuddled face, which brought him back to Earth. "Oh, sorry, I…. I was thinking about something else. What did you say?"

"That's quite alright," Hibbert replied with a jolly chuckle and smile as the men turned around a corner that led down an almost identical hallway from the one before, "quite alright. I was just asking about the symptoms you described over the phone; has anything changed?"

Smithers fussed with his bowtie and fiddled with his glasses as he thought over the days. An awkward situation it was to think back to them as they were filled with things he'd rather forget – Mr. Burns' forgetfulness, the terrible headaches that had him in constant complaint, and the confusion that had made him forget who Smithers was at times. It was too much to bear, but something Smithers had to do in his search for answers and treatment for his boss.

"Well," he began, throat dry with tension, "aside from the headaches being more frequent, not much has really changed."

A sharp sigh released months' worth of pent up air from his lungs as his last response was uttered just above a whisper, "nothing's improved…."

Hibbert nodded and placed a kind, comforting hand to Smithers' shoulder, which twitched as the touch caught him off-guard and drug him out of his pity. The doctor stood at the door of Burns' room, the hand that wasn't planted on the other's shoulder rapped against the polished wood finish.

"Mr. Burns," he called with that upbeat tone that severely contrasted against the atmosphere, "you've got a visitor."

Burns' eyes were heavy, almost frightening to look at as they were hallowed. He was propped against an oversized pillow, seemingly disoriented and dazed as those cold eyes spied the two men in the doorway. His words came in a slurred string, but Smithers understood, "well, well, it _is_ about time."

Smithers cursed within himself, hoping the sedatives had thrown off the elder's sense of time and space. He bit his tongue and dragged his teeth along his lower lip as he gained the nerve to enter the room, doctor in tow. His hands were a trembling mess when he finally reached the bed, the anxiety gnawing at his innards.

"Sm-i-i-i-thers-s-s," the slurred hiss from the ailing man came in a rather unpleased fashion, "could I have a word with you -," icy eyes traveled to Hibbert with burning suggestion, "alone?"

"Oh!" Hibbert exclaimed with that infamous chuckle bursting from his every fiber. "Pardon me, gentlemen! I'll just be checking up on that nutcase – erm, patient - in the other room. Just call for a nurse if you need something."

The door swung shut at a torturing pace, so slow and calculated. The aloofness of Burns' voice and eyes sent shivers down his young ward's spine, making the other meek and timid (well, more than usual). Smithers shrank, his body falling limp in a chair that sat next to the bed's railing, and he felt a series of knots winding from throat to stomach. The ulcers from years of constant worry and grief began to fester as he clasped his hand over one of Burns' skeletal ones.

"Um, s-sir?"

Burns, despite the medicated fog looming over his mind, held a sadistic little smirk. The smirk was so casual, almost twistedly so, as he wrapped boney fingers around the forest-green fabric of Smithers' jacket. With all the strength that had vanished over the past months, Burns pulled the young lackey nose-to-nose, smirk transforming into a bitter scowl with clenched teeth behind stern lips.

"Five minutes, eh? In and out, eh?" Burns scoffed, his irritation evident by the sharpness in which he jeered. "Just what is going on here, Smithers? I was born, but I wasn't born _yesterday_ – I know when I've been left out of the loop. Now, either you tell me what is taking so long or I walk out and never set foot in this place again!"

A weak chuckle, "ah, let's not get hasty, sir. Um," he stammered in a continual loss for an explanation, "would you like me to get you something from the cafeteria?"

"Stop beating around the bush, Waylon. I want answers, and unless you can find those in the cafeteria, I'd suggest you stay here… if you like your job, that is."

Smithers stumbled, standing from his chair and pacing the floor. His tongue pressed stiffly against the back of his teeth as if to bite back his own words. It seemed that whatever answers he did have wouldn't be satisfactory; therefore they seemed unnecessary to even mention. The words that he wanted to say would never come passed his throat, only linger there and suffocate him from within.

He shuffled over to a cart on the opposite side of the cramped room, upon which sat small paper cups and a pitcher of ice water. The water had a foul odor of chlorine, but Smithers poured the liquid into one of the cups regardless. He took the cup in a sweaty, shaky palm and carried it to the bedridden man, offering it with a sheepish grin, "water?"

With a swift slap, the cup was flung from Smithers' hands. Burns had crudely made his point as he swatted the helpless cup to the floor, water spilling from its top and puddling on the floor. Narrow, black eyes glared at the puddle with resentment.

The drugs had seemed to subside since Hibbert had taken his leave, and Smithers was left to wonder if the dazed and confused state of his boss was nothing but a smoke screen. Burns seemed perfectly capable of overcoming its effects now, able to feel his own distaste for the situation without the numbing of the medication. There didn't seem to be a fog any longer, nor did there seem to be a barrier between the elder's mind and body for he did whatever came to mind.

"I'm not thirsty," he grumbled as he glared at Smithers with the same resentment he had held for the water. He sighed, his expression softened as those large, pitiful eyes of his assistant made some dent in his heart, "Smithers…. I'm a big boy; I can handle whatever it is that's wrong with me."

"I'm not sure you can, sir," the meeker man breathed, grabbing a handful of napkins from the cart and kneeling on the floor to sop up the mess.

Once the water had been mopped away, Smithers regained his posture and stood at the bedside. The clouds that formed behind his glasses masked any emotions that were shooting through his veins like a horrific overdoes of heroin. His mouth opened, formed around silent words that just refused to expel themselves, which led to nothing but frustration for both parties.

"If I can be frank with you," he eventually began, "I'm not exactly sure myself. They sedated you to run a few tests –,"

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that part," an impatient response from the ill.

"Um…. R-right, well, the results haven't come back yet. So, for now, you're all caught up, sir."

* * *

Awkward minutes ticked away, the clock's hands doing nothing to wipe away the tension that polluted the air. The only thing that managed to clear the air was the sound of the door creaking open and Dr. Hibbert emerging from the other side.

"Ah! Good times," he finished a rather riveting story with another staff member outside before turning his attention back to the two men. He had a thick envelope tucked under his arm and a clipboard with a rather large stack of papers clipped to it. Just the sight of all those papers shot a fear, a feeling of hopelessness into Smithers' already erratic heart. "Mr. Smithers, could you come with me to discuss these results in private?"

Burns interjected, pressing a hand to his secretary's chest when the man stood to leave, pushing him back into his seat, "come now, there's no need to be so secretive. After all, it is _my_ body and if something is wrong, I think I should be the first to know."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burns," Hibbert said as he shook his head in rejection of the request, "it's hospital policy that we not discuss findings with the patient until we've talked with those involved."

"What kind of idiotic policy is that?"

"An idiotic policy that stands firm," the doctor laughed as he gestured for Smithers to follow him out of the room.

Smithers was hesitant, feeling his chest turn to stone against Burns' frail fingertips. Somehow that weak, old man managed to hold back a young, physically-fit man with nothing more than the tips of his fingers. Of course, Burns' wit had always overcome Smithers' muscle.

"Fine," Mr. Burns groaned in defeat as he placed his hand back on the bed, the invisible force granting Smithers to stand. "But I get a full report on my condition as soon as you two are done gossiping like old hens."

* * *

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."

― Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss


	4. By the Masses

"Our real discoveries come from chaos, from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish."

― Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

* * *

Chapter Four

By the Masses

The air was thick and heavy, settling into Smithers' lungs like bricks of concrete. He tried to breathe to no avail, only managing to sputter. His hands worked busily at his bowtie with no particular purpose other than to attempt calming his nerves.

Bespectacled eyes focused deadly upon the clipboard with the endless stack of information and then glanced to the envelope. Despite the numbness he felt in that moment, there was a storm brewing in the pit of his gut, emotions piling up just as high as that paper stack. He bit his tongue, adjusted his glasses when they slipped to the point of his nose, and once his lungs granted him access to oxygen again, he spoke.

"Did you, um," he fumbled as he felt a noose form around his throat, "did you find anything?"

Hibbert's typically happy-go-lucky attitude had transitioned into one that made Smithers feel utterly hopeless. The doctor placed a hand upon the other's shoulder and escorted him down the hall into a grimly cold room. The permanent chill in the air left behind stiffness, and the pain of every family to have ever faced that room oozed from the walls.

"Please," Hibbert began, hand outstretched in the direction of one of the only two chairs in the room, "have a seat."

A thousand denials pranced about Smithers' mind in a single instance, but none of them slipped into the room. Refusal was the only thing on his mind, yet compliance is what he gave, taking a seat in the painfully hard-cushioned chair. His body shifted this way and that against the cushion, no position any more comfortable than the last. After a few uncomfortable movements, Smithers settled with one leg thrown over the other and hands gripping against a knee. The spasms of his legs bouncing about revealed the fretfulness he tried to keep hidden.

He gulped dryly, "it's bad, isn't it?"

Hibbert's eyes moved to the floor and he drew in a cleansing breath. The doctor slid into the only free chair left in the room, which was conveniently placed opposite the other, and set the clipboard and envelope on a small, round table.

"Waylon, listen," he began in a professional tone, having learned to mask emotions in his years of training, and he withdrew a few papers from the clipboard, pointing to certain words with the tip of a pen, "we've found a few," a brief pause to connect thoughts to words, "masses."

"Masses?" Smithers questioned with an atypical numbness that surprised him; he thought his voice would have quaked and his heart would have raced, but instead the question came solid as a rock and his heart sailed into his stomach, dissolving in the acid.

"Yes," Hibbert confirmed with a sympathetic gaze. "One on the brain, one in the lung; we believe the one in the lung might just be a harmless polyp, but the one on his brain is rather large. Of course, we'll have to run more tests to determine if they're malignant or not."

"Malignant?" It hit Smithers then – cancer. "Wait, wait, wait," he sputtered, shutting his eyes as the room began to spin around him, "you mean Mr. Burns could have…" He couldn't say it.

"It's a possibility."

Hibbert's answer provided the assistant with little solace. If anything, it only produced terror and anguish. A possibility had never seemed so definite – one possibly could get a new car and it won't happen, one could possibly win a million dollars and it won't happen, one could possibly get cancer... one already had it. Just a possibility was suddenly the equal of a positive affirmation.

"Oh," Waylon retorted, eyes frozen on the paper as the words blurred through salty brine.

It was apparent the doctor had noticed the tears that Smithers hadn't, as Hibbert passed over a box of Kleenex. Smithers hesitated briefly before a trembling hand snatched a few tissues from the decorative box. Only when he pressed the aloe-infused paper to his face did he realize the tears in the corner of his eyes; he wiped them away and tightened his jaw, determined to stay collected despite collapsing within himself.

Hibbert offered a smile and patted Smithers' shoulder, "nothing's definite yet. If it comes back that they aren't cancerous, we can remove them easily. Even if they do come back cancerous, we can still remove them; it won't be as easy as if they weren't, but it'd still be doable."

The physician then took the envelope in his hands and pried open the silver clasp. Once opened, Hibbert removed multiple images that he'd gathered from the diagnostics, "now, here you can see images of Burns' brain. See that white lump? That's the mass we've got to watch for – see if it grows, spreads, or whatever it is it decides to do."

Waylon nodded in understanding, though he wasn't sure his mind was fully with him. He examined the large blotch of pure white that stood out among the surrounding blacks, blues, and purples. Something that seemed like nothing more than a mishap with white-out was suddenly something that was capable of tearing lives apart with no remorse. Smithers stared at that blotch, hating it and resenting it.

"So," he started through gritted teeth, "where do we go from here?"

"Typically, we'd do a biopsy," Hibbert explained, a glimmer of his jolly-self reentering his voice, as he trailed off into an almost suggestive tone, "if, of course, you could talk Burns into letting us do the surgery."

A sharp sigh from the ward, "I'm not sure even I could convince him. Mr. Burns isn't one to do things he doesn't want to. It was like pulling teeth just to get him here."

"If we don't perform the surgery, we won't be able to take a sample of the mass to test for cancer cells," the medic explained. "Well, there's always the lumbar puncture, but it's not as accurate as the biopsy."

Another hefty sigh, "I'll do what I can."

* * *

Burns was fascinated as he began fiddling with the IV in his hand and the electrodes stuck right beneath his clavicle when Smithers returned. The elder looked to the young with a far different attitude than when Smithers' had left.

"Ah, Smithers," Burns spoke with an almost cheerful slur, "the nicest young lady came and gave me some of the finest medicine through this little tube."

"That's good, sir," Smithers responded with a nod as he, to no avail, tried to sound optimistic. "Glad to see you're in a better mood than when I left."

"Well, Smithers, it's a wonderful life. Oh, yes, it is indeed a wonderful life."

"They gave you the good stuff, huh, sir?" The aide light-heartedly asked with a chuckle he hadn't expected from himself.

"Let me just say, I'd put great stock in it," Burns responded with a school-boy type of giddiness.

Just as quickly as the high had come, it subsided enough for the business powerhouse to sit up and snatch the envelope that Smithers held loosely in hand.

"Ooh, my results, no doubt!" The old man giggled, struggling against the metal clasp that sealed the confidential contents. "Come now, don't be shy," he spoke to the clasp as though it were a young fawn, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to take a teensy, little peek."

Smithers had seen enough of those claw-like fingers fighting a losing battle, which prompted him to gently snatch back the envelope.

"Allow me," he added to his actions to excuse the rudeness. "Um, you know, we really aren't supposed to discuss the results until Dr. Hibbert comes back."

Burns cocked a brow as the edge of his mouth twisted into a cheeky smirk, "come now, Waylon, don't be such a spoiled sport. What that old quack doesn't know won't hurt him! Open it."

Smithers' hands trembled with hesitation, fingers hovering just above the clasp. He sighed as his arms lowered and shoulders drooped, his body going limp in defeat, "I can't do that, sir. You'll just have to wait for -,"

As if on cue, Dr. Hibbert entered the room with a friendly smile. He rubbed his hands together for no actual purpose as he approached the bedside, placing one of his masculine hands on his patient's fragile shoulder.

"Alright-y," he boomed with that signature snicker following suit, "I think we've made you wait in suspense long enough. Let's get to those results, shall we?"

* * *

Burns and Smithers sat in deathly silence for a while after Dr. Hibbert had left. The clock's ticks were suddenly overwhelming, clicking at an ear-splitting volume despite never having changed. The ticks were accompanied by heavy thuds from both hearts of the two men with Smithers' seemingly lodged in his gullet.

"I'll do it," the silver-haired man uttered, shattering the silence and muting those damned ticks of the clock.

"Huh?"

"Pay attention, Smithers," he scolded before retracting the hastiness of his words. "I, um, I said I'll do it. I'll allow the biopsy -," the stars that lit up in his assistant's eyes soon dimmed when he tacked on an extra bit of information, "on one condition, and one condition alone."

Smithers feverishly nodded his head, "of course, sir! Anything you want."

"Anything?" He hissed in his usual way, drumming a finger on his chin to contemplate all the things his heart desired. "No, Sheldon wouldn't take too kindly to a new animal about the house. No, what I need is, should something happen to me-,"

"Don't talk like that-,"

"Let me finish," Burns scolded once more, raising a gesturing palm to Smithers. "Where was I? Right! Should something happen to me, I'd like for you to see to it that nothing changes. Just because old Monty isn't around doesn't mean those nincompoops can slack off."

Smithers scoffed in an awkward sort of chortle, "you mean more than usual?"

"Precisely."

"Well, I can assure you that you'll be just fine," Smithers stated, more for his own sake than for Burns', as he nodded in affirmation, "but, if that's what you want, then I'll see to it that everything runs like clockwork."

Burns tapped the tips of his fingers together, forming a miniature Eiffel tower atop his chest, "excellent."

* * *

Night had silently crept over Springfield, leaving Burns asleep in the hospital's cot and Smithers to sit deep in thought in a nearby chair.

Smithers ran a hand through his spiked locks before sliding his palm beneath his chin. He drew in a cleansing breath, but it did little to alleviate the worry that had a vice-grip on his lungs. His mind continued to replay the day, lingering on those images of a massive white mass. He felt condemned to his thoughts as they mercilessly tortured him through the night.

He glanced to his boss, curled up like an infant with an almost eerie look of peace, and grabbed the limp hand that dangled off the bed. He ran his thumb over the prominent knuckles that felt as though they could carve skin, and sat in the silence and the dark.

* * *

"I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.

Only I will remain."

― Frank Herbert, Dune


	5. The Pain of Patience

"If pain must come, may it come quickly.

Because I have a life to live, and I need to live it in the best way possible.

If he has to make a choice, may he make it now.

Then I will either wait for him or forget him."

― Paulo Coelho, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

* * *

Chapter Five

The Pain of Patience

The pungent radiance of daylight sorely offended Smithers' vision; his eyes had grown accustomed to nothing more than the flashing lights of monitors throughout the night. His eyes squinted as he stood for the first time in hours and stiffly walked toward the window, pulling the thin draperies shut. It did little to block out the sun of a glorious summer morning, but it dimmed the light enough for Smithers to regroup.

He hadn't slept; if he had, it had only been for a brief moment, one that was no longer than the time to blink an eye. His head spun, his body ached, his throat desperately begged him for something cool to wet its parched palate – he was on the brink of exhaustion. He had spent many nights without rest, yet that night was somehow different; it seemed that time trickled away much slower when your heart was an anvil of jumbled emotions.

There was the worry that nearly crippled him, the longing to be strong and hold together the shattered pieces within him, the anger that whoever – whatever – controlled the universe would allow such things to happen – there was every emotion that seized him at once and shredded his every fiber.

The biopsy was set to take place within the hour, leaving Smithers with time to agonize over the situation. He returned to his seat with a sigh, and his mind began to wander over the possibilities of what was to happen. His heart thumped in an irregular pattern, one that was all too common among the past patients and their families.

Smithers' head drummed in time with his heart. A migraine began to settle upon his mind, only worsened by the pain of his own tormenting thoughts of the near future. His thoughts fully clouded his vision, reality swarming in a blur around him. Had he not been sitting, the headache coupled with the swirls of colors would have seen him sprawled upon the floor.

Mr. Burns sat propped against the pillow Smithers had recently fluffed for him. The elder's icy stare moved about the room, focusing only briefly on each item. The blackened screen of the television that hung from the wall, the wire that coiled along the floor and led to the tube injected in his hand, and then to a sleepless Smithers struggling to lift his head – it was almost surreal in that moment. Burns had yet to comprehend what the tests encompassed, though he knew the prognosis would undoubtedly be dreadful.

The stale air, tainted with the pungent odor of peroxide and fruitless air fresheners, strangled the elder man as he shifted in his bed; he reached a frail hand toward his assistant, talon-fingers curling feebly as the hand drooped lifelessly over the guard rail, and beckoned to the young with an all-too-familiar call, "Smithers…."

Smithers' mind was rapidly being consumed by the horrific nightmares it produced. He was plagued by thoughts of death, of demons, and of grizzly reapers forming skeletal fingers to his boss' wasted body. Those thoughts had a firm grip upon him, pulling him ever downward along the darkness of the rabbit hole that was his inner workings; every part of his clockwork was overwhelmed with endless motion, while his presence in the world remained a stiff statue of a crumbling man. The call of the ailing man stunned his ears, voice magnified as it crept down the bottomless pit of Smithers' emotions, which caused the lackey to claw at the walls that had tauntingly begun to narrow around him.

"Smithers, for blaze's sake, pay attention, man!"

In a whirlwind of fire, smoke, and despair, Waylon was spat forth from his haunting visions and delivered back into the cramped hospital room. His eyes were wide behind his thick-framed bifocals, trying to focus through the daunting light that poured from betwixt the splits in the blinds. He clutched the bridge of his nose as his head was near to burst, responding in a sluggish slur, "s-sorry, sir. What were you saying?"

Burns' frigid stare held no mercy for the agony Smithers was putting himself through, for there were much larger matters at hand that didn't rely on "what if's" and "could be's". This wasn't some manmade nightmare that would simply vanish once the dreamer's eyes fluttered upon daylight – this was reality, and reality isn't so kind as to provide an out for the horrible things that happen.

"Hmm?" Mr. Burns hummed as he tapped his chin to remember the question that hung from his tongue only moments before. "Ah, yes! The surgery – when is it set to begin?"

An anxious glance to the watch clutching his wrist revealed a hard to swallow time frame, "in forty-five minutes, sir."

* * *

The hands of the clock had never turned faster, the sand of time never poured in such hefty clumps. Forty-five minutes had so easily slipped from fingers, and within the blink of an eye, doctors and nurses swarmed about the room. Nurses bustled to get IVs connected, information collected, and the patient calm enough for anesthetics to flow smoothly. All within forty-five minutes, the same forty-five minutes that had taken an eternity to pass when waiting for test results, had the wheels been set into motion. Within forty-five minutes, Burns was turned over into the hands of doctors, surgeons, and nurses, being relinquished from Smithers' care.

Smithers had made certain to stay nearby as the man fought against the tubes being forced into several different areas of his body. The assistant watched as his boss was slowly transformed into a mess of jumbled wires, cords, and tubes; the very sight made Waylon's stomach churn. His heart sailed along the acid of his stomach as his mind worked feverishly to will himself not to be sick.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" A feminine voice soothed as the woman who spoke ushered Smithers to sit. She'd obviously been trained to take care of those who easily grew squeamish at the sight of loved ones being poked and prodded like lifeless pincushions. She rubbed along the center of Waylon's back, holding a bedpan beneath him as his face flushed to a violent shade of olive. "It'll be okay, honey, your father's in good hands."

Smithers bit back the urge to vomit, swallowing the slick bile that coated his throat as he attempted to speak, "a-actually, he's not my father," he stammered as he closed his eyes from the spinning room, "he's my boss."

"Oh," the nurse responded with a blush of embarrassment at her careless mistake, "well, I can assure you that your boss will be just fine. These doctors perform this surgery all the time; they could do it in their sleep!"

"Thank you…." Waylon said with a bittersweet amount of gratitude. While he appreciated the woman's concern for him and her consoling nature, he preferred to be left with his thoughts – no matter how morbid and hauntingly cold they may be. "I have complete trust in your staff, don't get me wrong, but I'd just like to be alone with my thoughts now."

The woman nodded, an understanding smile smeared with ruby red lipstick playing against her dark cocoa skin. She handed the bedpan to the sickly man before returning to assist her fellow nurses with the more seriously ill patient. And with the final squeaks of an unoiled door, the medical team had whisked the elder man down the darkened hallway, and Smithers was left in the suffocating room with a mockingly empty gurney before him.

* * *

The surgeons were huddled over the unconscious man sprawled upon the steel table. They had come to an agreement that an open biopsy would provide a more accurate result and better establish the next steps of treatment.

Dr. Hibbert was the head doctor that supervised his staff as they assisted him, observing their tactics with careful eyes. Hibbert used a delicate, precise hand as he made his first incision, dragging a scalpel skillfully along Burns' skull. The purposeful wound peeled apart and began growing deeper and wider the further the doctor slid the instrument. Once the incision was malleable, Hibbert peeled away layers of flesh to expose bone, which he didn't hesitate to crack and flake away, revealing the bloody matter that was Burns' brain.

Liquid rubies trickled in several different directions, assisting doctors using tubes and suction methods to clear the area. When the blood finally subsided, Hibbert could maneuver his way about with great ease. It took but a moment to spot the mass that had so severely intimidated the young ward. The doctor nudged the sharpened instrument against the abnormally large tumor, dicing it as though it were a simple garden vegetable.

"Hmm, it's larger than what I'd thought," Hibbert informed his team as he dissected the growth and collected several specimens that he would later send to the laboratory.

* * *

Patience – so perfectly synonymous with pure torture in the moments that Smithers was left without knowledge. The unknowing was perhaps worse than the anticipation of what was to come; the facts that everyone except for him seemed to know. His heart was near to burst, the organ crying – bleeding – for some type of information. His mind and body thirsted for a single drop of knowing, and they seemed to shrivel away to useless mounds with each passing moment.

Many questions haunted the anxious man, and while his mind wanted answers, his heart would have done anything to avoid them. He was torn between the need to face reality and the wish to remain blissfully ignorant. One could never imagine the indescribable pain that honeymooned with waiting, with patience - how every tick of a clock could sound so deafening yet so distant, how each moment could leave the taste of death at the back of one's tongue, how nothing one could do could speed up the hands of unforgiving Father Time.

Smithers was left befuddled, grasping at straws over the relevance of time. However, time was irrelevant, and no man could ever conform such a loose concept to a straight line, to a mold that made sense to him. Forty-five minutes had come to pass within the blink of an eye when he so passionately dreaded his boss being ripped from his side; forty-five minutes seemed to be in refusal of passing once he longed for the skeletal man to be back within his sight.

Waylon stood from his chair, wobbling upon weakened knees, and entered the gravely-chilled hallway. He approached a young woman, who was busily typing with overly-extended fingernails painted in each color the world had to offer, at the check-out desk. After gaining a few vague details regarding Burns' condition and the amount of time the surgery was expected to take, Smithers gave the woman his cell phone number, "call me as soon as you hear he's out of surgery. I…. I need to step out and get some fresh air."

The woman nodded in affirmation, though her quick and careless actions caused Waylon to feel an uncomfortable weariness settle upon his chest. Regardless, he followed through with his original plan, hesitantly stepping outside through the automatic glass doors.

"Fresh air, yeah right" he grumbled, kicking a few stones across the hospital's parking lot as he walked down the aisles to find the lavish limousine he escorted Burns' about in, "…. I need a drink."

* * *

"I want to reach out and grab his hand and hold it to me, right over my heart, right where it aches the most.

I don't know if doing that would heal me or make my heart break entirely, but either way this constant hungry waiting would be over."

― Ally Condie, Matched


	6. Alcoholic Therapy

"Now, my intention was to drink just enough to dull the senses, but intentions should never be mixed with alcohol."

― Kirt J. Boyd, The Last Stop

* * *

Chapter Six

Alcoholic Therapy

Musty air filled with tension suffocated Smithers as he clutched a glass of scotch with one hand and the bridge of his nose with the other. His glasses were pushed atop his head, frames intertwining with gelled sprigs that fell astray from his typical buzz-cut. He pinched his nose and his eyes tightened to the point of stars invading his vision.

Warm alcohol slipped over his lips, lined his esophagus with the fires of Hell as the dark liquid slithered into his gullet. He cringed a bit at the scorching heat, quickly shaking it off as he fumbled for his wallet. After cracking open the leather bi-folds, he slid a twenty across the sticky countertop to Moe, who was leaning upon the surface using his elbows.

The bartender leaned closer to Smithers, attempting to keep their conversation as low-key as possible.

"Hey, uh, look, Waylon," he began, turning to shout obscenities at Homer, who was attempting some shenanigan that would ultimately drive his business into the ground. "Ay, leave dat alone...! Sheesh, now, where was I? Oh, yeah! Look, Waylon, as much as I loves your money, don't ya think youse have had a little much?"

Smithers' eyes adverted to the tabletop as he sighed. He grumbled something beneath his breath as he collected himself. His voice was rather deep when he spoke in such a slurred whisper that pure, dedicated alcoholics would have struggled to decipher.

"Yeah…." He gulped down the original, harsher response his drunken tongue longed to lash. He bit back the words until they rolled with the waves of scotch in his stomach. "I've just had a rough day."

Moe smirked and cocked a brow, slipping the twenty off the counter and pocketing it before Smithers could change his mind. He leaned toward the well-suited man, offering another glass of scotch, and tried to read his emotions.

"Well, I ain't no therapist, but I am a bartender, and that's basically the same thing. Now, you just put that wallet downs on the counter dere, and tell Moe all about it."

Smithers groaned with an irritating combination of exhaustion and bile, unsure of whether to divulge the rough months that preceded his current pathetic state, "I don't know, Moe, it's kind of… personal. I'd really rather not get into it."

His trembling fingers curled ever-tighter around the grooved glass, swishing the dark auburn liquid around in a tauntingly slow manner, watching it as it swirled depressingly around the bottom. The liquid sloshed about hallucinations that clouded Waylon's vision, seeming to foreshadow the unfortunate events yet to pass. It danced about, forcing its victim to face the reality that he'd hoped to escape from – even alcohol had come to betray him it seemed.

The bartender watched as his former business partner sunk deeper down the spiral of depression that Moe had seen many times himself - a darkness that rivaled the interior of coffins. A troubled soul buried so deep within the confines of one man, so hidden away that it could be considered by outsiders to be nonexistent, but only between two of a kind could the dreads of that soul be seen reflected in the other's eyes. Of course, alcohol had a way of dragging those moments toward the surface, which always had a way of guiding two souls together – intentionally or not.

"Ain't dat what bartenders are fo'? Listenin' to dere customers deep, dark secrets so's they'll have somethin' to tell dere other customers about?"

Smithers was unable to suppress a groan, kneading the bridge of his nose between his fingers, "yeah, because that makes me feel easier about telling you my problems…." Sarcasm wittingly laced around his words, worsening the tension that swirled about the polluted air. He drew in a deep gulp from the glass, finishing whatever liquid remained, to wash down the bitter taste his cynicism had left at the back of his throat. "I'm sorry, Moe, it's nothing personal. You know me; I'm always stressed about something."

The clank of the emptied glass against the bar drew Moe's attention for a moment; he collected the glass in his hands, stuffing a questionably dirty rag within it to wipe away whatever alcohol stayed pooled at the bottom. He gave a carefree scoff and waved his hand at Waylon, "don't worries about it – s'not like a little sarcasm ever hurt anyones. But, uh, in all seriousness, what's on your mind?"

* * *

Hibbert held a stern yet bizarrely calm expression as sweat trickled from his forehead to the scrubs that covered his shoulders. He focused on the delicate procedure, wanting to make certain as much of the tumor as possible was removed before completing his work. He situated and re-situated his hands, steadying them as he searched through several clumps of matter; his heart pounded and his expression fell to show his concern as multiple other masses that had miraculously hidden from their scans appeared. The masses were small – nothing compared to the softball-sized tumor he had been scraping moments before – yet in the most inopportune of places, making it nearly impossible to manipulate them. Yet, Hibbert persisted with his work, thoughts heavily focused on the task at hand.

"You there," he nodded in the direction of one of his colleagues, unable to recall names through the narrow scope of his thoughts, "we're going to need more anesthetic on stand-by - just in case. This surgery is harder than what I thought it would be, and we don't want Burns waking up anytime soon."

"You got it, sir!" The appointed man responded dutifully, swiftly heading out of the room and to the nurses' station to make arrangements for the request.

* * *

"... So, that pretty much catches you up," Waylon finally finished the long-winded, gut-wrenching tale of how the man he so tragically, unrequitedly longed for had finally begun traveling down the path of old age as the years that had so often been kind to Burns were finally taking their toll. Smithers heaved a heavy sigh as his watery eyes pleaded the bartender for another drink, Moe only glaring at him with distain.

"So's," Moe spoke with a voice of unreadable emotion – or lack thereof, rather. His eyes were transfixed upon the gummy bar as he refilled the scotch and water of the man that appeared as though he were on the verge of suicidal outrage. "Burns is finally on his ways ta kickin' da bucket, huh?" A glare from Smithers shot a chill of icy electricity down Moe's spine, scolding him without a word. "Uh, look, I'm sure he'll's be fine…."

Waylon's eyes were plastered to the surface of the bar, his hand sloshing about the glass in a torturously deliberate manner. His mind violently rocked upon the waves of the scotch in his glass as it tried to gather the sails of his thoughts. No matter the reasoning his logical-half tried to assure, his emotional-half combated with negativity and anguish – an amount of depression comparable only to those already dead and buried, formerly hung from gallows per their own freewill.

"Yeah…." A straight-forward, trailed off response that left an agonizing stretch for the imagination of anyone willing to attempt to decipher. Smithers took a fiery swig from the glass, burning his esophagus in a fruitless attempt to snuff out the raw acid that made his heart tremor, "maybe you're right."

"Of course, I'm right," the taverner was sly in his answer, a mood-lightening smirk curling at the edges of his lips. Despite the bubbling of distaste for Burns, the hope for the elder man's "untimely" demise, and an awkward twinge of jealousy over the amount of emotion Waylon expressed for a man who had never shown him much more than disappointment and grief, Moe kept up a relatively playfully mood to keep his customer's spirits from crashing and burning in the clutches of Satan's hands. "I'm's always right."

Smithers hated himself for the feeble smile that came to his lips, "agree to disagree, Moe."

* * *

Hibbert's calm and collected nature had slowly begun to deteriorate as the multiple tumors presented a more complex challenge than he had expected from a surgery he performed so routinely. Sweat that had beaded at his brow had started trickling down his vexed face, pooling at his chin before the perspiration was swiped away by one of his faithful assistants.

"We're going to need suction," the doctor's steady voice instructed as he choked back the clear concern in his tone and the desperate apprehension locked in his eyes. Copious amounts of blood hoarded at the flaps of flesh, pouring over the skin and spilling upon the steel operating table and the floor; Burns had once received a transfusion of his rare-typed liquid rubies, only to now lose that and a profound amount more. "We'll need to make arrangements for another blood transfusion as well" was the troublesome addition as the doctor took note of the blood that stained the scrubs that covered his perfectly polished shoes, "someone get that Simpson boy and his family on the phone!"

* * *

The vibration of the cell phone tucked in his suit pocket didn't faze the drunken man, who rested his chin in his hand as he continued to converse with the bartender, who had joined him in the drinking endeavor despite the supposedly illegal nature of that act. Waylon, in his lack of sobriety, mistook the phone's desperate vibrations to reach him as flutters of his heart, forgetting the phone rested in the pocket just above the organ. The intoxicated haze that loomed over his mind and body created a rift between thoughts, emotions, and basic physical activities, further dampening his inhibitions.

Jokes were passed back and forth as were shots of scotch, whiskey, beer, and whatever other alcoholic contents that was stored within the bar. Laughter replaced sobs and self-pities, and smiles replaced broken frowns upon each of the men's faces. In that moment, there wasn't anyone else in the bar as the two carried on like old friends catching up on yesteryears – and quite honestly, the only other patron in the bar, Barney Gumble, was passed out and sprawled upon the sticky, filthy floor.

"Heh, ain't dats da truth," Moe cackled as he lazily ran a dirty dishrag over the bar's surface, responding to a rather morbid joke that Smithers had shot his way. A dull sound of the buzzing vibrations from the other man's phone slashed against the tavern owner's eardrums, causing him great frustration as he swatted near his ear, "damn flies, always gettin' in one ways or another."

A blithe chuckle passed Smithers' lips, which were coated with the taste and scent of alcohol, as he began rummaging into his pocket, "false alarm, Moe, it's just my…." Octaves were dropped, and Smithers' head hung with distress and an abnormally rapid sobering, "- oh God, Mr. Burns!"

"Where?"

"No – it… ugh!" Waylon groaned as he cursed himself and clambered off the bar stool, stumbling yet managing to stabilize himself with assistance from the bar. He swore beneath his liquor-laced breath as he stumbled to the door and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. "S-sorry, Moe, I… I have to go."

Moe's eyes widened as his brow arched, watching the typically composed executive's assistant splutter and stagger about. His first response was of jealousy, a response he dismissed as he ushered himself around the bar, stepping over Barney with disgust, "filthy animal." He shrugged off the stupidity of his regular and continued his stroll toward the frantic man at the door of the bar. "Hold ups dere, Waylon, youse's too drunk ta be drivin's."

Waylon's glasses slid to the tip of his nose and his eyes narrowed coldly, "I'm fine. Besides, you let those goons you call "friends" drive home drunk all the time."

"Yeah, but dey's don't really matt-," an awkward pause that sparked a rush of confused anger. Moe impusively snatched the keys from Smithers' pathetically loose grip, "just shuddup, I'm drivin'."

* * *

"I no longer believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight.

But I was beginning to believe that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you.

Not because he was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together."

― Lisa Kleypas, Blue-Eyed Devil


	7. Young Blood

"The people you save won't celebrate you.

They'll gather the wood and cheer while you burn."

― Julie Berry, All the Truth That's in Me

* * *

Chapter Seven

Young Blood

Marge was busy at work cleaning dishes, drenched with soapy suds and grimy leftovers up to her elbows, when the phone upon the wall of the Simpson's family kitchen rang. She gave a somewhat irritated glance to the phone and sighed to express the aggravation further. She withdrew her hands from the sink, bubbles and murky water dripping from her hands and splattering upon the floor. She quickly snatched a freshly-washed cloth from the counter, wringing it with her hands as she made a futile attempt to dry them completely before answering the phone, "hello?"

The well-curved woman rested hand upon hip and leaned against the counter, phone nestled between shoulder, jaw, and ear as she listened intensively to the professional voice on the opposite line, "um, this is his mother… is there something wrong?" A motherly concern laced about her words as her mind instantly flashed images of her eldest child in harm's way, only to be sighed away when the man assured her it was nothing of that nature. "Well, that's good…. Oh, well, I'll have to ask his father…. Uh-huh, yes, I understand; we'll be there soon."

She hung up the phone and returned to the sink that remained half-filled with dirty dishes and extraordinarily filthy water. The towel she held was carelessly tossed away to the countertop as she turned upon the heels of her tomato-orange shoes, the shoes clacking as she approached her youngest child's highchair. A beaming smile tugged at her face as the infant girl stared down at the boney dog, which rested lazily upon the floor and yearned for treats to rain from the highchair, and suckled happily on her pacifier.

"Alright, Maggie," Marge spoke with a grin as she wrapped her arms around her child, lifting the baby from the chair and clutching her to chest, "how would you like to go with Mommy to pick up Bart?"

A simple and abnormally noisy suckle of the binky was the woman's response. Maggie rested against her mother as she was carried about the house as Marge searched for her keys and took a brief moment to fix her hair. The infant rolled her eyes at the woman's fussiness over something so trivial, but was damned by young age with an inability to protest. Her eyes widened happily as the scenery no longer contained their reflections and had transformed to that of the outdoors.

* * *

Grumbled strings of profanity flittered about the air, hands clutching an almost ridiculously soft steering wheel. Moe's eyes skimmed from one futuristic feature of the stretch limousine to the next, his mind rendered unable to comprehend the various buttons, knobs, and levers. Even if he hadn't swigged back a decent amount of alcohol, the car would have been utterly foreign to him. There were bulky knobs where a radio would be in any other car, levers where window controllers should have been, and a series of flashy, neon lights were scattered here and there. What would have seemed a brilliant luxury worthy of murder to most, seemed a heinous waste of money to Moe.

"Alright," he groused through a sharp sigh as he pressed his back into the heated seat, tightening his grip on the wheel until jaundiced knuckles paled to white, "let's see how dis baby purrs." He turned the key in the ignition, anticipating the clunky sputters and noisy revving of his own car, a brow arching when none of those noises came to pass. "Da hells? Waylon, dis car's a piece of –,"

"For the love of God, Moe," Waylon spat with frustration as he clutched the bridge of his nose, angrily slamming his arm on the rest of the door as he lifted his head and readjusted his fogged glasses, "it's a brand new model, it's not going to sound like that heap of junk of yours!"

The bartender harbored a strong glare, shooting it toward the unfazed man in the passengers' seat.

"Ay, youse don't talks about her dat ways," he defended the ragged car that appeared to be pulled off the set of a broken down, abandoned nineteen-fifties' film set, "she's a classic."

"A _classic_ piece of junk," the bespectacled man muttered the insult beneath his breath as he returned his head to rest upon his hand. He drew in a cleansing breath to no avail, only succeeding in raising his anxiety levels in the attempt to calm himself. "Look, just drive. Mr. Burns is probably in recovery now, and if he wakes up without me by his side, I'll be out of a job… again."

Moe gagged upon the man's name, "damn, Burns. Don't cares about no ones but himself."

An exasperated breath, "he's not that bad, Moe. Sure, he's done some…" Smithers paused and chose his words carefully and selectively, "questionable things in the past, but he has his moments."

"Doubt it," Moe scoffed and his eyes rolled before refocusing upon the lonely stretch of road. By some miracle, he managed to shift the car into drive with an accidental turn of a knob, which took the place of a traditional gearshift.

* * *

Blood continued to gush profusely from the paling elder, who was lolled upon the bitterly-cold operating table. Despite various efforts and well-conducted slight of hands, Burns' rare scarlet fluid ceaselessly spilled and coated medical instruments, gloved hands, and scrubbed bodies that all worked diligently to stop the madness.

Hibbert's brow knitted with determination as he clamped possible sources of the spouting, holding his breath over the stitch of hope he had to stop it. After delicate motions and multiple readjustments and tool replacements, the doctor accomplished what he had begun to fear was impossible – the bleeding episode was over.

The closest colleague to the doctor instinctively vacuumed over the area with a tube, suctioning the double O-negative blood that was so crucial for their patient's survival.

"Damn it," Hibbert muttered the infrequent profanity despite his success, "that Simpson boy needs to get here now, or this man's going to die right here on this table!"

"But, Dr. Hibbert," a timid, feminine voice of a scrubbed-up nurse flitted to the head surgeon's ears, "you stopped the bleeding. I-isn't that what you wanted?"

Hibbert's characteristically happy mood was replaced with an emotionless glare to the woman, who hadn't been in her field longer than a few short years, "are you new here? Mr. Burns has lost a significant amount of blood – considering his age, weight, and his current medical state, if we don't perform a transfusion immediately, all this is for nothing."

* * *

Marge hummed along with the quiet tune that drifted from the radio as she drove along the road. She occasionally let her eyes wander to the rearview mirror to check on little Maggie, who was nearly asleep in her car seat. The proud mother-of-three softly chuckled at how adorable the baby was, her mind being brought back to reality as her eye caught glimpse of her eldest child skateboarding on the sidewalk just dashes up the road from where she drove. She beamed, glad to not be forced to hunt him down at one of his many friends' houses and perhaps even happier that he wasn't wreaking havoc upon the small town, speeding up just enough to catch up with Bart.

"Bart!" She called as she rolled down the window; the car slowed to the speed of the child on his skateboard. "Bart, you have to come home now."

"Mom?" A stunned reaction that caused an imbalance between immovable child and unstoppable skateboard; the board flew out from under the youngster, who landed firmly and squarely upon the concrete. "Gah, not cool, Mom!"

Marge's eyes had expanded in motherly concern for her injured child, her attitude changing as Bart took a rather displeasing tone with her, "hey, don't yell at your mother. Anyway, get in the car; we've got something very important to do for Mr. Bur- erm, something very important to do."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bart stammered as he clambered back to his feet, brushing dust and pebbles from his clothes and skin, "that bag of bones already got my blood; what more could Mr. Burns want from me?"

The woman nervously chuckled as she shifted the car into park and unlocked the doors, "funny you should mention that."

The Simpson boy was one foot in the backseat of the car before he paused, his eyes narrowing and his lips pursing, "no way! Nuh-uh! There is absolutely no way that I am _ever_ doing that again!"

* * *

Two cars – one a simple family vehicle, the other the transportation of the rich and famous – were set on a collision course as they each entered the vast parking lot of Springfield's hospital. The one that carried the quaint family of five pulled into a cramped parking space between two other unfortunate souls that had to be admitted to such a grim place, while the car that carried two drunken, bickering men pulled into a wide space that was reserved for those on the higher spectrum of the food chain.

The chubby father-of-three, Homer Simpson, hopped out of the family's car with excitement in his giddy steps.

"Oh boy, one more chance at Mr. Burns' riches! Dreams really do come true!"

"Oh, Homer," his tall-and-blue-haired wife groaned as she gathered her purse and climbed out of the car, "we're not in this for the money. Remember what happened last time?"

"Pfft, yeah, but that was then. Old Burnsie's on his death bed, he's probably so out of it that he'll agree to anything," Homer ecstatically rambled before lowering his voice to a greedy, sinister whisper, "like leaving all his money and estate to the Simpsons family."

The two elder children followed their parents' leads and exited the vehicle, Bart's eyes frantically searching for escape as he planned to bolt to his freedom. His younger sister, eight-year-old Lisa, watched him with steady, vigilant eyes, making certain his escape would be foiled instantly.

"You're not planning on running, are you, Bart?" Lisa pressed in such an accusing manner that it made the question obsolete.

The question was answered with a scoff and sprinkles of spit flying upon her face, "no-o-o-o," came the elongated and obvious lie, "why would I do that and miss out on getting another giant, useless statue?"

"Well," the young girl remarked as she swiped away the saliva from her face, "I hope not. Sure, Mr. Burns is an evil, crooked, tyrannical man, but he doesn't deserve to die because of that. You have a long life ahead of you, Bart, and Mr. Burns… well, we all know he's about as close to death as you can get."

"But, what's in it for me?"

"Riches, my dear boy!" Homer cried and clicked his heels together as he strolled happily into the waiting room and up to the front desk. "Hello, madam – Simpson, Homer J., proud father of Bart Simpson – _the_ Bart Simpson."

* * *

Waylon staggered over his own two feet as his head hung, eyes transfixed on the ground and mind left at the bar owned by the man who followed him step-for-step. Firm, quick hands grabbed onto his broad shoulders and roughly tugged his body aside, sending the broken man's mind reeling and spinning as his ears were assaulted by blaring horns and angry swears from a disgruntled driver.

"Sheesh, Waylon!" Moe spat irritably as he held steady to the other's bulky shoulders, his own heart pounding as fear throbbed in each pump. "Youse tryin'sta get yo'self killed or whats?"

"Ah, h-huh?"

"Youse almost gots hit by dat damn maniac!"

"Oh…." Smithers trailed off with lips agape, his mind still incapable of registering the events that almost led to his own demise. His eyes were ample behind thick-framed lenses as his vision swam upon seas of alcoholic worry and chaos.

The thickly-accented yelling coupled with the sheepish, distraught murmurs drew Marge's attention, the voices impossible to mistake for anyone other than their owners. She turned upon her heels, Maggie dozing in her arms and bothered by the sudden movement, and noticed the two men standing in close proximity. She gestured for her other children to shadow their father while she approached Moe and Waylon, a tense frown upon her face.

"Mr. Smithers," her greeting being that of a sympathetic woman, "I'm so sorry to hear about Mr. Burns. But, they have great doctors here, and I'm sure everything is going to be just fine."

Smithers tormented eyes simply stared upon the woman's face, angered at the way she spoke to him with such pity. He breathed heavily as his lips parted to speak, only to be interrupted by the man that drove him to the hospital, "uh, no offense dere, Marge, but Waylon ain't exactly in da moods ta talk."

"O-oh? Well, that's okay. Um, mind if we keep you two company while you wait?" Marge asked with an apprehensive smile, nudging her head toward the sleeping baby in her arms.

"Whatever!" The frustrated assistant shouted with unintentional spite as he hurriedly advanced toward the automatic doors. "Just… it doesn't matter. Do whatever you want."

The bartender gave a slight smirk and light chuckle at the other man's spat, and he leaned closer to the woman that towered over him, "told youse so. So's, what are youse doin's here? Da rugrat gots a cold or somethin'?"

The woman gave him a befuddled glance as she unsurely responded, "you mean, neither of you know?"

"Know what?"

"Moe, we had to bring Bart here for another transfusion. Apparently, Mr. Burns took a turn for the worst during surgery and needs blood."

Panic struck the tavern owner as he shook his head with a pitiful respire. His already scuffed shoes kicked at the pavement and one of his hands worked nervously at the back of his neck, "Aw jeez… uh, do me a favors and don't mentions dat ta Waylon."

* * *

Bart was forcefully held down in his chair by his father, unable to flee the building if he tried.

"C'mon, Homer, let go. I'm not going to do anything."

"Ha, I don't think so, boy. Can't take any chances, you know."

The ten-year-old lowered his head into his hand and grumbled, pinching at the bridge of his nose, "I can't believe I'm doing this again."

And with that final feeble protest, a pointed and unnervingly cold needle prickled its way deep into the vein of the boy's arm, ravenously sucking at the liquid and storing it in an external unit.

* * *

"It's really a wonder that I haven't dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out.

Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart."

― Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl


	8. Transfusion Confusion

"Oh Julie, wouldn't I know if you were dead?

Wouldn't I feel it happening, like a jolt of electricity to my heart?"

― Elizabeth Wein, Code Name Verity

* * *

Chapter Eight

Transfusion Confusion

Oblivious and baffled, Smithers, slightly more sober, approached the front desk with a burning panic lingering behind frantic eyes. His hair dripped across his forehead in messy, curled swoops, and the breath that left through parted lips reeked of cheap alcohol. His hands shook as they clung to the front of the desk, leaning his forehead against the glass that separated him and the unamused nurse, who pursed her lips at the stench.

"Burns," he panted as if out of breath, his lungs struggling against the fuzz of anxiety that flooded them. Waylon's body shook on the verge of a top-class panic attack, making it hard to stand and that much harder to speak, "wh-which recovery room is he in?" he pleaded as his voiced dropped into his throat and grew rather gruff, "please tell me he's still groggy."

The nurse's head lulled toward the computer, her nose scrunching as her eyes shifted toward the drunk before her. Her expression was that of confusion, one that made her makeup contort and reveal the flaws she had attempted to mask, and her voice spoke with an irritating lack of urgency or empathy, "oh, he's not in recovery."

A jolt – words fired like bullets – shocked Smithers' heart into a rhythm that should have sent him crashing upon the floor. However, he remained standing, albeit bent at the waist with his knees clanked together and shuddering for mercy.

"What do you mean he's not in recovery?" The crumbling man whispered with ice rolling off of his every word. His emotions and thoughts went numb as his body stiffened. The many years of working like a slave for the man his heart refused to set free had never left him feeling more of a puppet than he did in that moment. One moment and a single un-compassionate sentence had strung the strings ever-higher and noose-d him in an aided, psychological suicide.

"You called my phone! I know you did; just because I was unable to answer at the time doesn't mean I didn't know it rang!" He shouted with his voice louder and more boisterous as though the effects of the alcohol were reaching a second wind. "I specifically told you to call me when he was out of surgery! So, why am I here if he isn't in recover-,"… it hit him. "Oh God… h-he's dead, isn't he?"

* * *

Homer's toe drummed impatiently upon the floor as he waited for news of the transplant. His fingers tapped one after the other upon his chin, which rested in his palm as he watched the hands of the clock strike to move. His two children watched as he fidgeted, much to his daughter's disgust.

"Ugh," Lisa groaned with a heavy force from her chest, hoping her greedy father would overhear the outburst. When the back of the man's bald head didn't turn, the young girl sighed in defeat and lazily swung her legs off the edge of the chair she sat in.

"How do you feel, Bart?" She finally asked, wanting to break the unbearable silence that consumed the air with the selfishness that oozed from her family members. "Still light-headed? They took a lot more than they did last time."

"I'm fine, Lis," her brother offered in a drowsy slur, his head spinning as it rested in his hands. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his dry lips, "once I'm rich, I'll just buy some other kid's blood."

Lisa felt her internal temperature rise as her blood began to simmer before reaching a rapid boil; she stood from her chair, feet thumping loudly upon the floor with each stomp, "Ugh! How could I have been born into such a selfish family? Doesn't it make you feel _anything_ just to help someone who needs it without getting some kind of monetary gain?"

Homer took a brief moment away from the clock to answer, "well, I do feel kinda hungry."

There was no point in answering, Lisa knew that fully well. She'd always been the voice of reason in an unreasonable family (at least when it came to her father and siblings), leaving her to always pull the weight of relatives and herself. The weight of the world often rested upon her shoulders, crushing her year after year – and she knew that in time, those fragile shoulders would break somewhere along the way of puberty. For now, however, she was child – a child who was more mature than any other she knew, but a child nonetheless – who needed the solace of an adult who actually understood more than beer and television.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over chest. She took her leave, the silent tension of the room following her into the long stretch of hallway, stalking her the entire way. It was a wolf at her heels and no matter how rapid-paced her steps became, it tracked her like a bloodthirsty animal.

"Ignorant fools," she muttered to herself as she spoke poorly of her father and brother, "only animals do the same thing over and over again and expect a different outcome. And for money! Gah, money…."

The root of all evil, the leaves of Hell's trees, always fascinated her family. They all blindly followed it like mules being led by a carrot upon a string. Of course, she wasn't completely innocent of longing for fancy items and materialistic things every now and again, but her moral compass didn't allow her to be as easily strung as the rest.

Her shoes grew heavier as her pace began to slow to a halt when she reached the waiting room. Eyes examined the scene with the timid nature of a fawn being hunted; her mother and one of her father's friends were consoling the pitiful disaster that Mr. Smithers had been reduced to. Lisa felt the agonizing palpitations of her heart (which had crept downward and embedded itself within her gullet) that often struck when an unannounced death hung overhead. Regardless of the thumping from the pit of her stomach, she further approached the tightly huddled adults.

"Mom?" She began with an unusual uncertainty in her voice as she wrapped her arms around her baby sister, taking the infant from Marge. Lisa carefully climbed into one of the worn chairs next to the group and cradled Maggie in the same way their mother had done. "What's going on? Did something happen to Mr. Burns?"

* * *

Impatience lingered like a devil in the shadows; it filled the cramped room with strain, and the air became stuffy and stale to dry out the throats of any doctors or nurses who would dare try to speak. Hibbert was perhaps the only one able to overcome the overwhelming anguish that came with time they didn't have as it passed, seeing as he was the first to speak when the blood arrived, "okay, team, we're in a sticky situation, but we've got the blood now; so, let's get this show on the road."

Diligent nurses and surgeons busily teamed together, hooking up the appropriate tubes and wires – connecting bags to poles and needles with flesh. Thick, crimson molasses trickled from the bag as it became the tortoise to the clock's hare. It raced in a race that seemed pointless considering seconds passed much quicker than its drops. It filled the tube after a slow and steady effort, curving and winding about the clear wire that trailed from the pole to Burns' hand.

"Dr. Hibbert," one of the few male nurses in the room chimed in after a great few moments had expired, smiling as he noticed the subtle change in their patient's status on one of the many monitors strewn about the room. "His blood pressure's going back up."

"Now, that's just wonderful!" Hibbert exclaimed gleefully as he glanced to the monitor, his signature chuckle sighing from his chest as relief ate away at the fright. "Of course, he isn't out of the woods yet, but it looks like old Burns here is going to get lucky one more time."

* * *

Bart shifted, antsy in his seat, as his vision began to straighten and his mind began to regain the blood it had lost. His thoughts were beginning to piece together as the muzzy, supernatural feelings of blood-loss subsided.

"Hey, Homer?"

"Yes, my wonderful, a-ma-z-z-z-ing son?" Homer asked in a sickeningly sweet tone, mind still lusting after millions that were yet to become his own.

"What happens if Burns croaks before he puts your name in his will?"

A sudden silence of realization afflicted the room, and Homer's eyes enlarged as the possibility weighed heavily upon him.

"D'oh!"

* * *

Smithers sank further toward the floor when the young one's question created a thousand more within his own mind. His well-toned body puddled as he was doubled over at the waist and his head hung well over his knees. He buried his tear-blotched face in his hands, embarrassed and angered at himself. He could have sworn – and he would have if it weren't for the two children within earshot.

"Um, n-no, honey," Marge managed despite being distracted by her faltering attempt to console the inconsolable. "Mr. Smithers just didn't know about the transfusion, and he's a little upset about that."

"Why am I such an idiot?!" Smithers shouted into his hands as his voice broke, gargled by the tears that lined down his throat.

"Ay," a harsh bark from the bartender drew attention from other sickly Springfield residents that cluttered the waiting room. Moe rested a firm hand upon the other man's broad back and leaned to Smithers' level. The tavern owner's face was stern and strong, his nostrils flaring with the anger of his friend's self-loathing as he snapped, "youse ain't no idiot! S'not your fault dose nurses care mo' about dere fingernails dan dere patients."

Waylon's head tilted just slightly from the cups of his hands, a watery yet furious glare targeting the man who lingered uncomfortably close.

"Moe… you're _not_ helping! It's not her fault - she _did_ her job; I'm the one who failed at theirs! Whenever Burns needed me, I was there, and the one time he needed me more than ever, where was I? Out getting sloppy drunk so I wouldn't have to deal with my feelings…." Smithers' shouting lowered to a raspy whisper. "God, I feel like such a waste."

Lisa watched as the scene played out like a drama from one of her favorite novels. She questioned whether to simply let the play unfold before her or climb into the story and join the cast. A decision she shouldn't have taken so lightly was made within seconds as she stood, passing the infant back to her mother.

"Hey, mom, do you think maybe I could talk to Mr. Smithers for a minute?"

"Oh, Lisa, I don't know," Marge responded with apprehension, trying to cradle Maggie, who squirmed and fussed in a non-verbal fit. "Well, alright. I think Maggie wants some fresh air, anyway. Just choose your words carefully, okay? This is a delicate situation for Mr. Smi-,"

"Okay, thanks, Mom," the eight-year-old rushed in interruption as she happily took the seat that was left vacant when her mother arose. She nuzzled herself into the sunken cushion and placed a hand upon Waylon's back, hoping to provide both comfort and logical reasoning.

"Mr. Smithers, I think I can help you if you're willing to listen-," she paused, staring at the bartender who sat un-moving, "um, sorry, Mr. Szyslak, but I was kind of hoping I could talk to Mr. Smithers alone."

"Whatevas youse gots'ta say ta him, youse can says to me," Moe grumbled with the stubbornness of a toddler longing after a toy that their parents refused. "I'm here fo' support, and I'm goin's ta give support."

A faint grumble of irritation, "fine, just don't interrupt…."

"Okay, Little Ms. Know-It-Alls," the man muttered back as he childishly slumped in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

"Ah-ah, no interrupting," Lisa teased with a slight chuckle at how she was able to be more mature than someone far older than she. Despite the fun she could have had going toe-to-toe in a battle of wits with each adult in the room, she returned a sympathetic voice to Smithers', "anyways, Mr. Smithers, it's actually quite common for adults to want to drink away their feelings – just look at my dad."

Smithers scoffed.

"Um, sorry, bad example – but what I'm trying to say is, no one can protect the ones they love all the time. You have to be your own person without being tethered to someone else once in a while, and you shouldn't feel guilty for that. It doesn't make you an idiot because you hurt or because you make a mistake."

"It doesn't make me an idiot that I'm too oblivious to answer a damn phone call?" The emotionally-drained executive's assistant spat the rhetorical question, an unintended swear weaving its way into his sarcasm. "I've made a mistake that could have cost Mr. Burns his life."

Lisa shook her head, unfazed by and understanding of the man's use of sarcasm and profanity.

"That doesn't make any sense; whether you were here or not, Mr. Burns still would have lost that blood and needed Bart's. Besides, if it weren't for you, Mr. Burns wouldn't be getting the treatment he needs for… um, what exactly is wrong with him?"

Moe piped in when he felt Waylon's spine fall limp, knowing the shuddering man was rendered unable to speak, "Burns has gots tumors on his brain or somethin's. Dey's tryin' to see if dere cancerous or nots."

"Oh," the girl began gently, stunned by the response as it was graver than she'd expected, "I-I'm so sorry, Mr. Smithers…. But I stand by what I said before, it wasn't your fault."

"Y-yeah, well," Smithers stammered and forced a smile for the sake of the youngster, swiping tears and all other grimy evidence of his emotional breakdown upon his sleeve, hoping it would snuff out the feelings as easily as it cleared away the tears, "thank you, Lisa, but I don't think this is something you should concern yourself with."

The young child muttered a phrase Waylon had so often found himself saying, "... I concern myself with everything."

* * *

"Over the years, I have come to realize that the greatest trap in our life is not success, popularity, or power, but self-rejection.

Success, popularity, and power can indeed present a great temptation, but their seductive quality often comes from the way they are part of the much larger temptation to self-rejection.

When we have come to believe in the voices that call us worthless and unlovable, then success, popularity, and power are easily perceived as attractive solutions.

The real trap, however, is self-rejection.

As soon as someone accuses me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking, "Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody."

... [My dark side says,] I am no good... I deserve to be pushed aside, forgotten, rejected, and abandoned.

Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the "Beloved."

Being the Beloved constitutes the core truth of our existence."

― Henri J.M. Nouwen


	9. To Fight or Flee

"Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them."

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

* * *

Chapter Nine

To Fight or Flee

Stillness – the same numbing stillness that brought Smithers back to the night he'd spent at Burns' Manor – crept into the man's feebly-beating heart. His mind drifted, rowed through a sea of memories with the hands of the clock as his oars, and forced him to think of the dream that plagued him that faithful night. Burns sitting so fragilely upon Smithers' lap, running talon-like fingers over delicate flesh, a skeletal hand roaming with intended torture just above a yearning waistband; a dream that impacted him far more than any of his fantasies before; a dream that made all others seem hopelessly pathetic and school-boyish. It was a dream so real, and to have such wonderful bliss be falsified only to be awakened to a reality of depression and unknowing left Smithers at a loss. His questions transition from the prosperity of Burns to the uncertainty of his own existence.

The conversation (albeit it almost completely one-sided) carried by an eight-year-old child had left his mind in a jumble, perpetually searching for some type of answer. Why was he chosen to endure such rampant feelings to be tossed asunder as though he were mere garbage? His feelings - they meant nothing to Burns, and if they did, it was never expressed. Those tiny flutters, those gentle tingles, those many nights without sleep; Burns endured not one of them. Burns seemed a master at the game of chess that was life, each of his pawns set in place, guarding him from checkmate. Each employee of the plant was a pawn, and Smithers had been reduced to one as well. Yet, if he was a pawn, then what was life? Life had intervened, had somehow surpassed him upon the board and gotten to the king, and by some illegal move was finishing what appeared a never-ending game. Perhaps life was the opponent, the disgruntled opponent that flipped the board just as its counterpart was on the cusp of victory.

"Mr. Smithers?" The concerned sound of a child's voice grazed his ears with enough reality to yank him from the depths. "Are you alright?"

A child – a child cared more about his problems than a man with an entire century (and four extra years) ever had. Distaste for Burns formed at the back of Waylon's throat, which concerned him and frightened him, yet, in some twisted fashion, felt liberating. He choked upon the bitter bile that threatened to tarnish to tiled floor, managing to force it back to the depths to drown alongside his thoughts of despair.

"I'm fine, Lisa," he sighed to prevent himself from sputtering, sniffling away the urge to burst into tears and turn into a screaming toddler upon the floor. He sat up and struggled to wear a phony smile, streaks of dried tears and a trembling lower lip, however, made the grin that much more artificial. "How's your brother? He did go through with giving his blood again, right?" A roundabout way of asking about Burns' condition; Smithers had become what he hated, a user – using Bart's well-being without much concern only to uncover some information about his boss. He had set up his own chess board and slowly the pawns were falling into place, and he hated himself with each one he set up.

"Oh yeah, Bart's fine," Lisa beamed, the unreadable flicker behind her eyes unveiling that her smile wasn't exactly that genuine either. Her kind heart and worry for others seemed to be programmed within her being, rendering her unable to flee from it under any circumstances. "He did – can't say he was happy about it, but yes, he did," a glance to the clock, "they're probably discharging him now."

As if on cue, instructed by the director of this little play that life had become, Bart and Homer exited the back portion of the hospital and reentered the waiting room.

"I can't believe you made them give you a lollipop, man," Bart grumbled with his hands shoved into his pockets, he kicked at the floor and rolled his eyes as his father indulged upon the sweet. " _I_ was their Dracula victim!"

"Hey," the bald man chuckled and shrugged, sucking upon the lollipop much like his infant daughter did upon her pacifier. Suddenly, Bart was forced to see that each of them had some resembles to the oafish man that towered over him. "You said you were too old for candy. Next time you should keep your mouth shut."

Lisa shook her head in disappointment, but couldn't hide the delicate chuckle that sneaked from her chest, "see, I told you he was fine."

A puny chuckle, "well, that's some good news today…."

"Lisa!" The raspy yet feminine voice of the eight-year-old's mother called as she stood before the automatic doors that led to the parking lot. "When your father and brother get – oh, there they are – anyway, come on, you'll be late for band practice."

Emotionally torn, Lisa glimpsed to her mother impatiently gesturing with her hand and then peered to Mr. Smithers. As with most children, their mother won each time – not because the mother was always the one they wanted to choose, but because the mother was always the one who could punish them.

"Be right there, Mom," she called to buy herself time for as proper of a goodbye as she could bestow, "I'm really sorry, Mr. Smithers, but I have to go. Keep me updated on what happens, okay?"

"Sure thing," Waylon weakly agreed, letting that damned smile fall as he returned his head to face the floor.

In that moment, Lisa felt helpless as she was pulled by an invisible force that led her outdoors and back to the family car. She stared back at the building, taking in each little detail of it for memory's sake, as she waited for Maggie to be strapped into her car seat. Once the youngest of the three was secured, Lisa climbed begrudgingly into the car, mind full of thoughts most other children her age would have no idea existed.

"Mom, do you think Mr. Smithers is going to be… okay?" She asked, her fear running much deeper and colder than any of the adults would believe or understand. They'd perhaps think she meant in terms of coping, and in a way she did; but she thought not of how he would cope, but _if_ he would cope. She wandered down the dark stairwell of one's inner mind, the cellar that one's eye never wished to turn upon, and within it found images of Mr. Smithers and the possible ways he may commit suicide.

"Of course!" The contradicting cheerful tone of the woman provided no ease to what her daughter was being tortured with. Was it even humanly possible to comfort someone from their inner realm, even by one's own mother? "Now, don't you worry about this, Lisa; it's really more of a grown-up issue."

"Everything's always a "grown-up" issue," the young girl huffed and crossed her arms upon her chest. Her back flopped against the supporting seat and her eyes married with the window of the car, honeymooning with the bright greenery of summer's scenery. She sighed, immersed in the wonders of nature and how magnificent it was, and how small and insignificant the human race was. In everything, in every way, there was a negative to all of life's positives – but without the darkness, the torture, the gruesomeness, there would be little point in the majestic. For if one wasn't forced to endure the things they so often wished away, they would grow bored with all the things that made life worth living – and thus, they would wish away their own lives entirely.

"I understand more than what everyone thinks. Nobody ever listens to kids, and we're the ones that will someday be doing everything other adults are doing now. Weren't you ever a kid, Mom?"

"Well," Marge began thoughtfully as she shifted in the passengers' seat to view her children; two of the three were sleeping. "Of course I was, but what does that have to do with Mr. Smithers?"

An inadvertently proven point at which Lisa groaned, "no, I mean, don't you remember ever believing in something or knowing something, but no one would take you seriously simply based on the fact of your age?"

When Lisa's voice raised and Marge watched her two sleeping children begin to stir, she gave a motherly-stern scowl to her middle child.

"We'll talk about this when we get home, Lisa."

Shrugged off again; her intelligence and burning curiosity tossed aside to become wastes of space floating about in the air. She sighed, she grumbled, she would have sworn if she didn't fear being punished – Lisa silently broke down without a single crack being made on the mask she had created for her feelings to hide behind. She hid them well, and in turn, her family was happy.

* * *

Smithers' head hung heavily, nearly weighing him down to the floor. His body yearned for some type of reason to continue what seemed a pointless life, a never-ending ballet where a star-crossed lover was damned by the one his heart so painstakingly desired. A shaky sigh that forced its way through the liquid concrete that filled the assistant's lungs; breathing had never seemed a more difficult task, leaving a wonder of if asthmatics ever suffered an attack as crippling. Burning flames of a pining so strong, so hopelessly disregarded set his chest ablaze; and Smithers now yearned for one thing greater than Burns – death.

What had seemed a simple problem, a tiny little mistake, was compounded by years – decades – of unappreciated servitude, relentless bondage to a prison of denied affection, and working as the slave of a man much more superior than he.

The waiting room was no longer existent. It had fallen away once the child had left and no distractions remained. The world seemed to turn off as a greater force flicked a switch that was Smithers' being. The man was shutting down, his mind being consumed by the acidity of his thoughts and his yearning. In that moment, there was nothing beyond his bespectacled eyes, but behind them laid everything he never dared to speak.

"Waylon!" The boisterous man who had remained with Smithers barked after multiple failed attempts of grabbing the other's attention. "Sheesh, come backs ta Earth, would ya? Da doctor wantsta talk to youse."

"Huh?" A response that made Smithers despise every thought that ever kept his attention from the reality at hand. He longed to escape the world, yet hated himself wholeheartedly when he managed to do so – he was damned if he didn't, damned if he did. Perhaps, that was all he ever was and ever would be – damned.

Sensing another unintentional rude bark from the opposite, Hibbert interjected with a charismatic chuckle, "yup, yup – the doctor wants to talk to you. Now, about Mr. Burns' current condition -,"

"It's bad, isn't it? He's going to die, isn't he?" Smithers, whatever handle of his life he had being ripped from his grasp, sobbed as guilt and shame ate away at his innards. He shook his head in dismay, uncertain how or if he could handle being the cause of yet another misfortune. "Damn it, why did I have to leave him alone?"

"-about his condition," the doctor reiterated as he sat in the creaky, wobbly chair across from the two men, "the blood transfusion went just as smoothly as last time, and he's stable in recovery." A proud and dignified smile played upon the doctor's face as his chest swelled – he had saved a life and was now able to relay that to his patients. "Of course, he's still groggy from the extra sedative, but you can go back and see him anytime you'd like."

* * *

Burns' lids were weighty as they fluttered in the near unmanageable struggle to open fully. His head lulled this way and that upon the pillow, pain having not yet set in from the day's events that he remained unaware and uncaring of. Ignorance was bliss as the medication had altered whatever tactfulness remained within his old and withered soul; he toyed with the tubes like a child receiving a new toy, and his eyes (once squinted open enough to see) toured the room with the utmost curiosity. A century's worth of roaming the Earth, discovering life and its little pains and pleasures, and nothing before had seemed more enthralling than the modern day machinery that cluttered around him. In that moment, Burns was seemingly born again and everything was anew.

The creaking of a door caught his ear, to which he responded with enthusiasm and inquisitiveness. For the Burns that harbored power and hatred, when medicated, was reduced to just another elderly soul in search for companionship as he lay upon his hospital bed. A rare smile – one not of personal gain or financial wealth or evil tomfoolery, but one of medicated happiness – crawled from one cheek to the other. His head carefully lulled in the direction of the door, his assistant and the surgeon who had saved his life entered.

Hibbert chuckled at the atypical cheerfulness of the silver-haired man, who grinned with each raggedy tooth exposed.

"Well, hello again, Mr. Burns, nice of you to join us. And how are we feeling?" The doctor greeted, his tone almost mocking the delusional state of Burns' mind. He rested a firm hand upon the tyrant's boney shoulder, checking pupils and reflexes before allowing Smithers to approach the bed.

Slurs invaded the elder's response, "ex-cel-lent – why, I haven't felt this giddy in over forty years!"

A worrisome expression, one of distress over his boss' sudden lighthearted mannerisms; how ironic it was that Smithers slaved, conformed and deformed, gave all but his physical existence for Burns to have some type of true joy beyond money and greed, and yet the moment it comes, it brings with it grief.

"A-are you sure you're alright, sir?"

"Oh, yes, yes," Burns tittered as his claw-like fingers curled purposelessly about the air, drifting beneath the point of his protruding chin. "In fact, I'm feeling rather generous. Smithers, take note – all employees shall receive a raise upon my return."

"Okay," Smithers emitted a bittersweet chuckle, "now, I know for sure it's just the medication."

The familiar snicker of Hibbert flitted about the air, "yes, Burns will be back to his overbearing self before you know it. The medication shouldn't last too much longer."

As the surgeon took his jolly leave, the disgruntled figure of the man they'd left waiting in that Godforsaken waiting room paced down the hallway, dodging staff and patients alike until he reached the doorway he was instructed to.

Moe, brows knitted and breath full of harsh complaints, entered the room and observed the sight; Waylon sat at the bedside of his boss - broad, masculine hand clasped over one of nothing more than skin and bones – watching as the elder's high started to come crashing down upon him, leaving him writhing in pain and filled with lust for revenge against those who brought him such grave suffering.

"Smithers!" Burns gasped as his fragile body struggled to remain still, shifting from one direction to another in attempt to escape the physical agony that clawed through him like a ravenous beast. "F-find whichever quack-job has done this to me and kill him!"

"But, sir-,"

"Waylon, I w-won't tolerate any insubordination from you, nor from anyone else! Find who did this to me and see to it he's dead by dawn, or you're fired!"

"Sir, you're being a little -,"

Burns glared at his assistant, additional threats burning behind icy eyes when they couldn't be forced from his pursed lips. His concentration was broken as from the corner of his eye, he caught glimpse of the shabby looking bar owner loitering in the doorway.

"Who the devil are you?"

"What's'it ta youse?" The barkeeper scoffed as he prowled into the room, his steps as quiet as the cat who stalks the unsuspecting mouse. Nerves consumed him entirely, gnawed at the reputation of the "tough guy" exterior he had perfected, as he slid a hesitant hand to Waylon's shoulder. "I'm a friend…."

"Oh-ho! That's a laugh," the ailing man laughed, regret radiating through his chest as the sutures atop his bandaged scalp burned and throbbed from the force of his actions. "I'll admit those quacks gave me top-notch pain killers, but those have worn off enough for me to know that I've never been friends with the likes of you."

Another harsh scoff and a tight squeeze to the assistant's shoulder, "pfft, in yo' dreams, Burns – actually, I'm's a friend of Waylon's."

"Is-ss-s that s-ss-so?" An awkwardly extended question that seemed ripped straight from the tongue of a vengeful serpent. Burns eyed the man, examined him from nappy head to turned-in toes, and turned his pointed, crooked nose up with a scowl. "Hmm… yes, well, how grand for the both of you."

"Youse bein' sarcastic ova deres, Burns? Cause if youse are, I'll –,"

A horribly uncomfortable chortle cleared from Smithers' throat as he rudely shrugged away the other man's hand, standing from his seat on wobbly knees and pushing against Moe's slumped shoulders.

"Moe-e-ee," he urged through gritted teeth and a blatantly phony smile, "don't you think it's time you get back to the bar?"

"Not unless youse's comin' back with me…. Ah, youse knows, ta pay fo' all dose drinks youse had earlier."

Torn – a decision that left Waylon stuck between a rock and a wall. His frantic eyes scanned over the sickly man, the same man who had nearly lost his life the last time Smithers left his side. The next man Waylon's eyes traveled to was a friend, one who he'd grown closer to after their shared business failure and the one who'd left his current business to stand by him when the broken man was on the verge of darkness. A choice of an impossible measure – to risk decades' worth of unrequited lust or to risk a friendship that provided solace when there was none.

A groan crept up from Smithers' Adam's apple as his head was thrown back in disgust of the situation he'd inadvertently thrown himself into.

"…. I'm sorry, Moe, but Mr. Burns needs me," his head lowered, almost as though he were shameful of the choice he'd so thoughtlessly made. "I have to stay here…. B-but, I swear, I'll pay you back; I'll drop whatever I owe you off at the bar tomorrow."

* * *

"How miserably hypocritical, you might say, but no sooner am I offered a chance to flee Hell than I yearn to stay.

Few families hold their relations as closely as do prisons.

Few marriages sustain the high level of passion that exists between criminals and those who seek to bring them to justice.

It's no wonder the Zodiac Killer flirted so relentlessly with the police.

Or that Jack the Ripper courted and baited detectives with his - or her - coy letters.

We all wish to be pursued.

We all long to be desired."

― Chuck Palahniuk, Damned


	10. Joy is Misery

"One of the greatest evils is the foolishness of a good man.

For the giving man to withhold helping someone in order to first assure personal fortification is not selfish, but to elude needless self-destruction; martyrdom is only practical when the thought is to die, else a good man faces the consequence of digging a hole from which he cannot escape, and truly helps no one in the long run."

― Mike Norton, Just Another War Story

* * *

Chapter Ten

Joy is Misery

Lisa's saxophone seemed heavier than she remembered in the moment that her instructor conducted her into her solo for a parade to be held later in the season. She heaved the instrument as high as her weighty arms would allow, and her lips formed, for the first time since discovering the beloved instrument, hesitantly around the reed. What had once been skillful fingers that would glide along the keys to make strong breaths play flawless notes had been reduced to unsteady, off-beat music.

The music teacher, who was nearly as off-beat as the sour notes bellowing from the sax, snapped his conducting wand against his music stand and scolded the child, "stop, stop, stop! What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Largo, I just-,"

"You just played the most horrible string of notes I've ever been forced to listen to," Dewey Largo complained through a rather strong, stereotypically-homosexual voice. He clamped hands over ears and approached his star pupil. "Listen, you're the only one who can pull this pathetic little band together. Without you, the whole parade will be ruined."

Lisa chortled in a scoff as her eyes rolled playfully to the ground, "trust me, I'll be fine by then; the parade's four weeks away, and I'm sure that whatever is happening now will be over with way before then."

Darkness glimmered behind pupils filled with soul; thoughts raced of death and trauma and the pains of others through the mind of an eight-year-old. A precarious plague that ate away her innards with the acid from the bile she was forced to swallow. As her stomach ulcers grew irritated, she blew into the saxophone with all of her emotions behind her breath. Each note, that once came out so sour, came out melodically – emotionally-scarred yet beautifully played. Every hint of worry, every trace of pain, every apprehension over things beyond her control traveled through the instrument, expressing what she never could in words through the music.

Visions of a dying man resting in his hospital bed and glimpses of suicidal adults she'd grown to care so deeply for clouded her eyes. She went blind for the moment as she shut her eyes and her senses, letting her body move with animalistic instinct. She played what she felt without even trying, and had she been able to see, she would have sworn polaroid photographs of all the disturbing images of her mind poured out the other end of her sax.

Dewey and the other children had been taken away for an instant, their souls lingering and conforming to the notes that seemed to drift upon the air. The teacher stood in disbelief, shaking his head in a fight to stop the music from robbing his soul, and gave an agonizingly slow applause. The other instrument-clad students followed suit from their teacher, cheering on the girl who they so often found to be a show-off. Yet amidst the clapping and cheering, Lisa's inner mind was clawed and shredded by the demons that danced upon her head.

As she played the final notes before her lungs threatened to collapse, a few tears were shed for those she felt helpless to help. The saxophone had made such sorrow and torturous grief sound so hauntingly alluring that, no matter her tears, it left the rest of the crowd with contagious smiles.

"That was… b-beautiful," the music teacher gushed, shocked by his own emotion over such a heartbreakingly stunning song composed by a mere child. "I think we've found our lead!"

* * *

The response the barkeep was given settled in his stomach like a block of lead, unable to be dissolved by the acid and therefore was forced back up his gullet. He grunted at the burning that laced the back of his throat, the irritation only growing worse as he continued his exaggerated grunts and coughs to regain Smithers' attention. Moe glared at the back of the assistant's head, longing to bore a gaping hole straight through the awkwardly-rounded skull and see just what gave the man such deep lust and yearning for those who clearly held no torches for him. How could a love remain on for such great lengths of time without any sign of acknowledgement in return? Didn't the flame of every candle eventually burn out upon itself, snuffing the smoke of what once burned ever-so-brightly in order to suffocate any who dare breathe? No matter the time and effort he placed into wrapping his mind around how such a thing was possible, Moe could never understand the relationship (or lack thereof) that the lovelorn Waylon shared with such an evil, twisted soul as Burns.

"Maybe I wants my cash now? Youse eva think of dats, Waylon?"

The blank canvas that was his thoughts suddenly became overwhelmed with an endless list of possibilities of nicer or wittier things he could have said. His tongue had always been his enemy whenever it came to delicate situations; it always wanted to appear hasty, and often times he'd cut the hearts of those who've already been viciously massacred by the tongues of others. The wince that formed at the corners of Waylon's eyes made it clear, as though Moe was staring right through the crystal glasses he'd served the liquor that started this fiasco within, that such bluntly-spoken words had a piercing impact.

Moe sighed in disgust for himself, "… sorry, guess business's gots me mo' stressed dan usual."

"That's no excuse to take it out on me," the frustrated bite swiftly trundled off the tip of Waylon's tongue as he returned his focus back to the paining Burns. "I'm sorry about this, sir. I'll send him out if you'd like."

"No, no," an almost frisky retort from Burns as he steeple-d his fingers upon his chest, which twitched in pain, "from what I've been told you two are good chums; and who am I to break up a friendly brawl, hmm?"

"But, sir, I don't think it's in your best interest to be… uh… indulging in the bickering of others right now."

"Oh, pish-posh!" Burns snarled with a grimace upon his face. He lifted his palm to his assistant as the man's voice grew agitating to the powerhouse's ears. "I'm an old man with little time left, and the least you could do is let me enjoy it however I please. Now, carry on, Smithers and… friend?"

Smithers groaned, his throat growing irritated and sore from the consistency at which unspoken expressions smothered him. His mind split as he felt bitterness toward the man at a time when he should be presenting nothing but love and affection. He tilted his head toward the tiled floor in order to hide the insubordination of rolling his eyes and the tiny scowl that etched upon his face.

"Yeah, Waylon," Moe piped up with a frustrated smirk upon his face as his arms folded across his chest, "carries on."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burns, but I'm not going to risk your health just so you can have a laugh," the angered ward replied as respectfully as he could when feelings of acrimony clogged his chest. He returned to the man that stood before him and shoved against those rounded shoulders once again, shoving Moe out of the room and into the mocking hallway.

"What the hell are you doing?" Smithers spat, his hands balling into trembling fists at his sides. "Why didn't you stay in the waiting room?"

Moe shrugged, a cocky smirk upon his face that further boiled the blood of his counterpart, "I didn't feels like waitin's."

The growl of a provoked animal emitted from Smithers' aching throat. He rolled his eyes and folded his arms over chest, one foot positioned a few inches away from the other as his toe tapped impatiently. The glare he pressed against Moe's features didn't faze the slouching barkeep, who simply mocked Waylon's stance and sniggered.

"And just what is so funny?"

"Youse," Moe responded with unnerving swiftness that nearly tipped the other's balance. "I mean, sheesh, Waylon, youse act like dat boss of yours is da world. Youse think he'd be doin' dis fo' youse if youse was da one on dat gurney?" Waylon's lips formed to speak, but Moe refused to allow it, "Hell no! He'd be busy sittin' in dat fancy office of his, countin' his money."

Smithers' antagonism flared in his mind despite his heart's every feeble beat telling him that the other man was right. He stood completely stiffened with teeth gritted behind his lips that had formed to nothing more than the slash of a knife. In a heated rush, the foot that had drummed the floor impatiently stomped the ground, his fury exiting through his shoe and threatening the weakened tiles of the floor.

"Don't you talk about Mr. Burns that way!"

"Oh-ho-ho," a teasing laugh escaped Moe's chest as he stepped closer to the frustrated and confused man. Their contrastingly-expressive faces lingered in a brutally heated proximity. "I thinks I hit a nerve dere – huh, Waylon?"

A dangerous tango of words began to brew within each of the men. A brawl was erupting as tension was emitted into the air and sparked the interest of some other patients and their families that loitered in the hallway. Stiff upper lips nearly grazed from the closeness, knitted brows and foreheads were, too, almost connected, and a battle of wills was held within engaging eyes.

"Waylon," Dr. Hibbert interjected with a merry smile as he strolled down the hall, some other patient's chart tucked under his arm, "could I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course, Doctor," Waylon begrudgingly retorted as he forced his eyes and body away from Moe, who followed him like a lovelorn puppy followed their angry master. "Stop following me, Moe," he snapped in a whisper as he turned his head, chin to shoulder, to glare at Moe.

* * *

In spite of having been promoted to the lead role in Springfield's music parade, Lisa sat upon the curb with a reflecting frown souring her otherwise appealing face. She rested a hand atop the large, black-leather case that contained her saxophone in order to support her weight as she slumped. Her thoughts dawdled not upon her recent joy, but upon Mr. Smithers' and his suffering. She couldn't help but wonder if her silent suffering matched with the older man's, thus gaining her some type of empathy rather than the typical sympathy she always caught from others who knew not of her inner turmoil.

The obnoxious blare of a car horn assaulted her ears and earned her attention. Her eyes, wide from the startling racket, flickered upward to notice her father in the drivers' side of their family's car. Instinctively, she climbed to her feet and gathered her case, moving the strap over her shoulder so the hefty item wouldn't tire her arms' muscles. As she scaled into the backseat of the car and adjusted her seatbelt, she felt the oafish eyes of her father upon her.

"So-o-o," Homer began in hopes that at least one of his children wouldn't disappoint him that day, "how was practice?"

"…. Fine."

A fret played at the corners of Homer's mouth, "just fine? Nothing that old Dad here can be proud of?"

"Ugh, Dad!" Lisa groaned as she slammed her hand upon the armrest of the door and her eyes coldly locked with the darkening sky of twilight. "I know all you want is something to rub in your co-workers' faces."

Homer scoffed as the insolent accusation sorely offended him, "that's not true! I also want something to rub in the faces of our friends and neighbors."

"Yeah, Lis, lighten up," Bart spoke up as his eyes drifted from his hand-held video game to his sister.

"You go through what I go through on a daily basis and then tell me to lighten up," the young girl uttered in a sigh, not bothering to break eye contact with the rapidly passing trees and buildings. She cleared her throat as her voice once again scaled octaves, "if you must know, I got promoted to the lead for the music parade next month…. Um, have either of you heard anything else about Mr. Burns… or Mr. Smithers?"

Bart grunted out a crude chortle as hands worked busily at the buttons of his game, "nope. Why do you care so much anyway? It's not like they're family or anything."

"I just do, Bart!"

"Jeez," the boy, who was two years his sister's senior, said as he tried to hide the shock that danced behind his eyes from the yelp, "don't have a cow, sis."

* * *

Dr. Hibbert ushered the two men into the same room he and Waylon had discussed the seriousness of Burns' condition in only a day prior. He sat in the same chair he had that faithful day as Smithers took his old seat, leaving Moe to gawkily stand in the corner when the only two chairs were occupied.

"Uh, sorry," the medic chuckled and nodded his head apologetically at the unamused man. "You'd think after all the complaints, we'd put another chair in here."

The bartender snorted and his eyes traveled around the sparsely-decorated room solely to prevent looking at the doctor.

"Forget the chairs," Waylon barked before clearing his throat in an awkward apology. The ward's glasses went askew as he fiddled with them out of nervous habit before letting his eyes roam from the floor and upon the doctor's cheery face. "U-um, what did you want to tell me?"

"Well, as you know, we have Mr. Burns stable, but because of the unforeseen complications, we want to keep him here to monitor him for the next few days."

Smithers nodded, though it was none of his concern as he had already figured his boss hadn't seen his last of that merciless hospital, "okay... And what about the biopsy results? How long before those come back?"

"It could take a few days, it could take two weeks," the doctor responded before placing a reassuring hand upon the crumbling man's shoulder, "but I'll have someone up front call you as soon as they come back. Now, let's talk about when Mr. Burns will be released; we can send an out-patient nurse to watch over hi-,"

Smithers' bubbled with jealousy as he sharply interrupted, " _I'll_ be taking care of him. Besides, I think I'm the only one he'll let do it anyway."

"I-it's going to be a big job, are you sure you're up for that?"

"If I've put up with him this long, I think I can manage."

Hibbert gazed at the man with pity in his eyes, but he shrugged off the topic, knowing Smithers would stubbornly deny having any aide or help, "well, okay then."

* * *

Silence had become such a frequent companion in that painfully cold hospital room, which only grew colder as night shrouded the building. After another dose of pain medication had been administered, Burns had retired into sleep, but for once he didn't leave Smithers alone in the night.

Moe sat in one of the stiff-cushioned chairs in the opposite corner across from Waylon, who, too, shifted in his chair in desperation for comfort. The bartender watched the frowning man's squirms and observed the deadness in his actions; Waylon was dolefully cradling one of Burns' limp hands in his own, which sparked both anguish and bizarre jealously in Moe's gullet.

In desperation to put the painful silence to rest, the taverner interjected with an anxious voice, "youse okay ova deres?"

"Well," came the meager response as Smithers' head lulled in the other's direction, "I could damn sure use another drink, if that's what you mean." A faint and broken chuckle followed the response as the secretary sounded on the verge of tears for what seemed the millionth time in the past few days.

While mostly offered as a rhetorical statement, Moe pinched the back of his neck and made a friendly suggestion, "den how's about we gets out of here and head back to da bar? Old Burnsie'll be fine," he tacked on as he caught the worried expression that fluttered over Waylon's features.

Smithers heaved a sigh that could have disturbed the sails of any ships upon the stillest of oceans, "well, they do have him stabilized…. What the hell," he muttered with a shrug as he shook off his concerns for the slumbering elder, "I guess one drink couldn't hurt."

* * *

"The most intriguing people you will encounter in this life are the people who had insights about you, that you didn't know about yourself."

― Shannon L. Alder


	11. Crossroads

"Let's not let this be your life tonight," he says.

"Let's get back in the car and pretend we're driving away because we want to... not because we need to.

We can pretend I'm taking you somewhere amazing... somewhere you've always wanted to go.

You can snuggle up to me and we can talk about how excited we are and we'll talk about everything we'll do when we get there.

We can talk about the important stuff later.

But tonight... let's not let this be your life."

― Colleen Hoover, Hopeless

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Crossroads

Waylon took a deep breath and spoke to his slumbering boss, running a hand over the thick bandages that were meticulously wrapped about the elder's head, "I'll be back soon, Monty."

The peaceful expression that resided upon the paled face of Monty Burns was unnerving; an expression resembling that of a man laid within his coffin, dead and ready for burial. Had it not been for the machines showing the man's every breath and heartbeat, Smithers would have fell upon his knees and swore to whatever force controlled the Godforsaken universe that Burns was dead. It was rather queer how something as simple as a pulsating neon light upon an otherwise blackened screen could provide more solace than any human ever could.

Moe rolled his eyes as the scene unfolded before his charcoal eyes, disgusted by the metallic taste of jealousy that skulked its way from his gullet and into his mouth. His eyes narrowed upon the two men, watching as the young hopelessly gazed upon the elder in unrequited passion. The jealously that burned the back of his throat formed a thick coating that encased his tongue, making the muscle weighty and numb as he spat with impatience, "would youse hurry it up? S'not like he's goin' anywheres!"

"My God, Moe, the man's dying!" The taller man snapped with a heightened tone of impatience than the other. His snippy remark glided so effortlessly off his tongue as his mind had short-circuited in a brief lapse of judgement. Realization settled heavily upon him and his teeth sunk to place grooved indentions in the flesh of his tongue. "I mean, he's not dying, but he's sick… _really_ sick. He's going to be fine…" a drop in octaves that emanated so pitifully, "isn't he?"

A force of a supposedly nonchalant shrug came from the disgruntled barkeep.

"Uh, yeah, he'll's be fine, Waylon. Now, let's get to da bar befo' I change my minds about handin' out mo' drinks on da house."

* * *

Lisa glanced to the alarm clock that sat scornfully upon her nightstand, the hands ticking leisurely as it neared the ten o' clock hour. She should have a been asleep in preparation for the next school day, but her thoughts were far from algebra and history as she restlessly tossed about in her bed. Her feet anxiously kicked off her comforter, which had begun to suffocate her with the radiation of her own anxieties.

The young girl bolted upright and propped her back against the headboard. Her hand dropped blindly by her bedside and felt around for her notebook, which she affectionately called and faithfully used as her log – a memoir of sorts. Stubby fingertips grazed against metal spirals and wrapped about them, hoisting the book from the bedside and into her lap.

With apprehension, she listened to the walls that were seemingly collapsing around her, waiting for a sign that all other tenants were sleeping. The obnoxious snores of her father brought a faint smile of relief to her lips, and she reached over to the nightstand and flicked on the lamp.

The illumination from the low-wattage, energy-efficient bulb casted elongated shadows upon all other objects of the room, which caused the shadow of her hand to somewhat conceal the words that spilled forth from pen onto paper:

 _Dear Log,_

 _In spite of achieving the one thing I've wished for over the past few months, I can't help but feel nothing but worry and sorrow. Why has my life reached a crossroads where my own happiness is bombarded by the suffering of others? Instead of focusing on my new position as the lead in next month's music parade, I'm stuck on the thought of poor Mr. Smithers. He's become an emotional wreck, and I can't help but wonder if he always has been and has simply worn a mask just as I have. It's funny how it only takes one bad thing to happen to trigger a domino-effect of all the tragedies from your past. I can only hope the chain is broken before the last domino falls…._

A thunderous slam that was birthed from the shadows shot a violent jolt of electricity through Lisa's heart, which sent quakes from core to hand and caused her pen to soar to the foot of her bed. Widened eyes darted upward to find the source of the powerful slam – her brother.

"Okay, Lisa," Bart interrupted the young girl's thoughts with an unusually serious voice, "what's going on?"

Lisa forced a nervous chuckle from her parched throat, "pfft, n-nothing. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bull!"

* * *

For the second time over the course of mere hours, Smithers found himself awkwardly nestled in the passengers' seat of the luxurious stretch-limousine. He rested his forehead against his palm as his fingertips absentmindedly tugged at the strands of off-brunette hair that fell to swoop just below his hairline. The hand grew tired and slid down a concaved, jaundiced cheek, feeling prickles of stubble forming upon the flesh. Bespectacled eyes stared bleakly upon the passing scenery that was dimly lit by strategically placed streetlamps.

The driver's eyes held equally little emotion as the other while he stared at the darkened road that stretched onward beyond the hood of the vehicle. The quietness that lingered within the car severely contrasted the bickering of their ride to the hospital, and, in some twisted way, Moe missed the fighting; at least fighting emptied one's mind of all thoughts other than of what words to lash next – unlike silence, which led one down unexplored territory of a demonic inner psyche.

"So's," Moe drawled in desperation to lay the bitter silence to rest as his grip tightened over the felt-like fabric that encased the steering wheel, "youse ain't sayin' much…."

A sharp sigh of defeat, "what's there to say, Moe?"

"What kind of stupid question is dats?"

Waylon's eyes broke from the blurs of unlit buildings and shrubbery and found their sites upon Moe's face, which was painted with a cocky, contented smirk. Smithers' despised that arrogant little grin, knowing he'd been duped into an intentional means of riling him. A grunt exhaled from his core as he attempted to rid his tongue of the sarcastic witticisms it ached to deliver. He swallowed the taste of his own cynics, which burned as it slithered into the pit of his stomach, and his expression softened to that comparable of a broken doll.

"I could ask you the same thing," he spoke in a teasing manner as his mind tried to will his heart not to shatter upon the well-kempt carpet of the floorboard. "Do you know what it's like, Moe? To feel like you'll never be good enough for someone who's perfect to you – even when they act like a complete asshole?"

"Waylon-,"

"I mean, what more do I have to do to make him love me? How much of my dignity do I have to throw away before he'll see me as his equal?"

The question infuriated Moe for reasons neither he nor any other Springfield resident could understand. A spark of unexplainable rage pumped through his veins as he was the unfortunate witness of a friend's descent into chaos. Emotions ran amok as the demons of the other pounced upon him, gnawing at the towering wall he'd built to protect the vulnerable soul that was buried beneath years of false indifference.

"Dammit, Waylon! Are youse really dat blinds? Burns is a bastard – dats all he's eva beens and dats all he'll eva be! He doesn't care about you, he doesn't care about dose bimbos that go whorin' around town – he doesn't care about nothin's but himself and his money!" The bartender raged as the car sped to further express his grief and frustration. He slammed his hands upon the wheel as his eyes narrowed upon Waylon, whose shocked face transformed into that of a lost traveler on a dead-end road, forever seeking a non-existent exit ramp.

Moe's expression, too, softened and his voiced scaled downward to a depressive whisper, "I hates to break it to ya dere, Waylon, but no one will eva be his equal – not even youse."

There it was again, that damned silence that tightened the noose that life had become around the necks of both damaged travelers. It delayed ever-onward, shadowing the men as their destination seemed an eternity away.

"…. You're right."

* * *

Lisa grumbled as her elder brother began to pry open doors within her subconscious. Lying was no strong suit of hers, yet she had become a master at masquerading her inner feelings from outsiders. Her brother would never be one to understand the perspective of someone who didn't view life as one huge theme park with clowns to laugh at and unsuspecting park-goers to scam with conniving trickery.

Some part of the eight-year-old envied her sibling as he wandered through his own life with blissful ignorance. The way he held his head up no matter what life dealt, the way he laughed off pain without another thought to the source of it, the way he could seem cool without a stitch of effort – it all filled her with volatile jealousy despite her yearning to be his polar opposite. Lisa didn't desire to forever be hounded by authorities, nor did she long to give up her love of knowledge to appease anyone; yet she continued to envy those who did dare such rebellion.

"Ugh, you wouldn't understand," she grouched as she slumped over her notebook when her eye caught Bart's grubby hand prowling toward it. "Hey! These are my private and personal thoughts, Bart!"

The boy smirked with arrogance as he swiftly weaseled his hand through the parting between his sister's arms, snatching the journal from her grip as his strength overpowered hers. He snorted in a sadistic chortle as he thumbed through the pages; he stood atop the younger's mattress and kept the book held toward the ceiling, away from Lisa's grasp.

"Bart! Oh my – gah, give it back!"

Bart seemed to enjoy the fire behind the girl's fruitless struggle to retrieve the book. His voice poorly mocked that of his sister's as he read a few of the lesser passages aloud; he chuckled at some that were written about her hopes and dreams while he simply shook his head at those that spoke of things he knew would never be – like their father becoming a man of selflessness. It wasn't until he caught the most recent of entries that the protective instincts embedded deeply within all older brothers bubbled to the surface.

"Lisa, why do you care so much abou-," he was cut off, tackled from around the waist by the vengeful child. They both plummeted the few short feet from bed to floor, smashing upon the ground with the thumps of giants. A numbing pain shot through Bart's back as his spine was the first to greet the floor, the back of his head following suit with a throbbing discomfort. "Ow, man! You're crazy!"

"Shut up!"

"What is going on in here?!" A voice that hadn't been part of the conversation in prior moments shrilly yet sternly enforced from the doorway.

Lisa stammered, eyes widening as she was caught with her hands thrust around her brother's throat (a behavior she'd picked up from her father).

"Mom, Bart took my-,"

"Yeah, well, Lisa said-,"

As Marge's children squabbled on the floor, continually talking over and interrupting each other, she approached the scene and hovered over them with her hands upon her hips.

"Bart," she scolded and jutted a finger toward the doorway, "go to your room. Lisa, get back in bed."

"But-," the children blurted in eerie unison.

"I mean it!"

* * *

"Don't tries to tell me-," Moe began, having not listened to the executive's assistant's drone of agonizing defeat. Registration evaded him as a rabbit evaded the barrel of a shotgun, only to be found as the gun was triggered and the bullet lodged within its prey. "Wait… I'm what?"

"Don't make me say it again," Waylon responded barely above a timid whisper as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for an impossible escape from himself. Alcohol – while not able to part his soul and thoughts completely – could numb him just long enough to make the world seem a tad less heartless and his pain a tad less damaging. "Just get me drunk; I'd rather not think right now."

It was as though some sympathetic, other-worldly force had heard the man's desperate plea; the bar towered over the vehicle and its captives, standing there in its filthy, rat-infested glory. Never had a place that condemned so many souls to an alcoholic Hell seem as much of a savior as it did in that moment.

Moe, having finally managed to tame the foreign automobile, shifted into park as he crookedly steered into a parking slot in front of his bar. His aching knees praised him as he exited the limousine; he pressed an arm against the space betwixt hood and doorframe, leaning his slender yet soft body partially into the vehicle, and spoke to his counterpart with a faint grin, "so's, da usual?"

"The usual," Waylon responded with a feeble smile and nod toward the barkeep – the only person who could help numb his senses.

* * *

"Have a drink, and try to relax.

All right, have another drink.

There are times when getting drunk's not a bad idea."

― John Christopher, When the Tripods Came


	12. The Benefits of Booze

"One more drink and I'll be under the host."

― Mae West

* * *

Chapter Twelve

The Benefits of Booze

Hours transpired much more quickly when one was intoxicated. It seemed that without one's wits about them, time didn't mind falling in clumps rather than tauntingly sluggish grains. It felt as though it were no sooner than they'd arrived at the wasteland of a bar that they were leaving, drunk on what felt like every sip of alcohol that once resided within the tavern. It had only just neared ten when they had arrived, and within the blink of an eye, all the clocks about town ticked toward three in the morning.

Three in the morning seemed to be such a familiar time for Waylon – a sexual peak of sorts. Three in the morning struck as his dream of Burns showering him with lust and recognition plagued him, three in the morning came on those countless nights he'd tear his cramped apartment to shreds whenever he and his boss would argue over one issue of morality or another; three in the morning seemed to be an hour where the animal within the timid fawn of a man was released, typically without his own consent, and wreaked havoc upon himself and all those who lingered nearby.

Smithers' head was tossed into the raging eye of the hurricane of scotch that swished about his stomach. He clutched his forehead and massaged against it with his fingertips, the many drinks filling his head with the feeling of helium. In spite of the throbbing headache that coupled with the lightheadedness, he held an oafish grin stretched from one cheek to the other. A false façade of happiness buzzed about his chest, rapping at his ribs that were the only things holding back his pounding heart. The animal scrabbled at the organ, yearning for escape and to reign once again over the typically submissive man.

"Y-you sure you're okay to be driving?" He hiccupped with a drunken giggle oozing from his chest as his eyes fought desperately to focus upon the barkeep in the drivers' seat.

"Sure, I'm sures," Moe chuckled, the pungent odor of alcohol slipping passed chapped lips and into the air. He returned his dampened focus to the road, inhibitions to stay on course battling against the liquor that wrestled them away. "I… I do dis all da times! Just relax ova dere, would ya? We're almost to yo' place."

Smithers' gaze was nothing short of appreciative – his pupils enlarged despite the moonlight that reflected upon them and the lenses of his glasses. The ashen moon was full, an appropriate phase for the tiny beast that grew within the man's gullet. The animal within began to rage as its instincts to stand atop the highest hilltop and howl mercilessly to that glimmering circle in the sky went rampant; that yearning was obvious behind shaky pupils that had grown to sync with the size of the moon.

With liquor slumbering upon his breath, Waylon leaned closer and rested his chin within the soft crook of Moe's neck, an added distraction that could have been detrimental had they not pulled into the small confines of the quaint apartment complex.

"Moe-ee-e," the heavily intoxicated man drawled in a slur as his hand cupped over the other man's rounded shoulder, "I… I want to tha-thank you for taking me ho-home," Smithers stammered through the annoying interruptions of hiccups and burps.

Oh, how alcohol had a way of bringing about the stranger within one's self! It was a tempting friend that urged one into things to never be considered in the proper sober state. From the first sip to the final drop, alcohol strung up its victims as it controlled its puppets from the stage of stupors. It set up its play in such a way that Shakespeare himself would weep with envy; how easily it controlled the actors, forcing them to read from scripts they'd had no time to rehearse.

It coated Moe's tongue, leaving it an anvil too heavy to respond as his heart flooded the back of his throat. The blazing heat of liquor coupled with the warmth of Smithers' cheek pressed against his own created a dust of shattered rubies across Moe's face. His heart thumped against his gag reflex, teasing the back of his throat to the point of gasping for air, and his mind jumbled as his tremoring hand grasped the handle of the door.

Unlike that of his own vehicle, the door of the limousine sprung open upon the slightest tug of the handle, vengefully ejecting the bartender from the comfort of the leather seat and spitting him upon the rough pavement. The jagged rocks of the complex's parking lot tore through fabric and into flesh, creating fresh scrapes that dribbled blood down Moe's elbows and hands. Alcohol had soothed the pain before it had come; it lovingly dulled his senses to the soreness of the injuries.

Charcoal eyes broadened as reality appeared a mere smoke screen; his body and mind were separate beings as he stared from the ground, watching his drunken passenger slump over the arm rest and into the vacant drivers' seat. The sudden tumble had taken a toll on the both of them, leaving Moe with physical repercussions while Waylon suffered from stunned confusion at the scene that had so rapidly unfolded.

"M-Moe?" Waylon called as his tongue danced dryly over crackled lips. The intoxicated man lifted his head, which spun and blurred his vision despite the glasses that rested upon the bridge of his nose, and attempted to hold himself upright. "Are you okay?"

Oblivion stretched behind dark eyes as Moe's mouth fell partially agape, longing to form words that fizzled upon contact with his drunken stupor. A nod was the only viable means of communication, and even it was shaky and uncertain of itself. He raised a hand and brushed it through the coarse, oily tresses that grew unruly atop his head, unconscious to the blood that transferred from hand into the sea of grey.

"Oh God, you're ble-eeding!"

"What are youse tal-," the man sprawled upon the ground began as his brows knitted. He pulled his fingers from the curls of his hair and twisted his hand in front of his face, observing the injuries and their severity. "Well, I'll's be damned," he added with a chuckle that would have been restrained had he been sober.

Smithers' sloppily motioned himself toward the door, pressing it open with the toe of his shoe as he used his hands upon the interior to steady himself. The vision of the vehicle's interior swirled about him in a near psychedelic hallucination of sorts as he willed himself out of his seat. Carelessly, he slammed the door shut behind him, startled by the booming noise he'd created. A curse beneath his breath and a reminder to himself to be more careful were tossed asunder as his foggy thoughts were carried back to the injured bartender.

The ward knelt toward the ground, pausing in a squat as he took the other's wounded arm delicately in his hand, tossing the limb about his shoulders. "C'mon," Waylon slurred as he heaved the weight of his friend up from the ground, "I have some ban-andages in my medicine cabinet."

Woozy and flustered, the two staggered and stumbled their way toward the door of the apartment. Moe propped himself (with help from Waylon) against the rain gutter that ran down the brick exterior while Smithers clumsily fumbled for the keys in the pocket of his jacket. He fingered at the keys, jingling them with fascination before starting on the agonizing journey to find the right one. Eight different keys to choose from and no way to tell one from the other left the man struggling, testing each key (most possibly being checked twice).

"I's could die from blood loss befo' youse get dat damn door open," Moe teased with a roll of his eyes and a lull of his head.

"Shush!" Waylon scolded, a triumph smirk tugging at his lips as he succeeded in finding the correct key and pushing open the door. He cocked his head toward the other and chuckled smugly, "well, look who's still alive."

A scoff and a laugh, "alright, don't go gettin's all sarcastic."

"You started it."

They were wrecking balls tripping down the hallway, bringing destruction to loosely hung picture frames and a vase that sat atop a tiny, round table. Shoulders bumped into walls, elbows bumped into ribs – they were practically entangled in a phone cord by the time they reached the cramped bathroom.

Waylon pointed toward the edge of the tub before sliding his hands to Moe's shoulders and pressing the stouter onto the surface. Without a word, Smithers turned upon his heels, bustling to the medicine cabinet and exploring its contents. Trembling hands rummaged through ointments, medicine bottles, tubes of toothpaste, and other typical necessities in search for the box of bandages. Fingers sketchily knocked over bottles of travel-sized lotions and shampoos as they continued their search, curling about the awkward shape of the box they'd been seeking.

"Ah, here we go," Smithers chirped as he hastily peeled back the flap of the box and removed a handful of the bandages, which crumbled under his thoughtless grip.

As he began to motion back towards Moe, Smithers snatched a rag from the towel rack and turned on the facet of the tub, thoroughly soaking the rag with the lukewarm water and a daub of soap. Once the rag had absorbed enough of the antiseptic wash, he slid as delicate of a hand as possible in his drunken state to the bloody lacerations.

Moe hissed as the antiseptic burrowed through the exposed layers of his flesh, burning far worse than even the initial injury had. He grasped at the wrist of his counterpart, a non-verbal plea to make the unforgiving stinging cease. He roughly pushed the wrist away as his face curled into a grimace, and the soaking rag dropped to the floor and drenched a portion of the shag bathmat.

"I don't need none of dat antiseptic-whachamacallems," he spat as Waylon glared at him from over the brim of thick-rimmed glasses.

"Fine," Smithers responded in a sigh of defeat as he fumbled to peel open the multiple bandages. In spite of the haze, he methodically placed the bandages over the wounds, rubbing a thumb over them to help the strappings better adhere. "There, it's not much, but I think you'll live."

Much like a child picking at an irritated scab, Moe ran his fingernails over the fresh dressings, staring at them as though they held his very skin together. A breathy chuckle escaped through the corner of his lips, which were bent into a meager smirk.

"Yeah, thanks a lot dere, Dr. Smithers."

Humor – what a bizarre thing to bring comfort to such a horrible time. Thoughts of Burns and his frail grasp on life had vanished; something that had been weighing at the front of Smithers' mind, the top of his thoughts through the many torturous hours of unknowing had been all but diminished when Moe's voice shifted in that bantering manner.

Ironically, Smithers could have harbored a hatred for the single person who had been forcing him into laughter and high-spirits throughout the ongoing ordeal. He could have hated that smirk upon the other's face and the smile upon his own; he could have hated the chuckles they could so freely have as Burns was forced into war against his own body; Smithers could have hated himself wholeheartedly – had liquor not scorched all those feelings, that is; and once the euphoria of the booze vanished, he _would_.

Calloused fingers snapped before his face, "Waylon! Sheesh, youse always goin's'ta have your heads in da clouds or what?"

Startle darted through his heart as the boisterous shout captured his attention, causing him to stumble backward from his kneeling position. His backside landed firmly upon the tiled floor, the thin bathmat doing little to break the fall, and his head landed within mere inches of the jagged corner of the cabinet connected to the sink. His eyes were wide and rested upon the bartender's face, which hadn't changed from the same smug expression it so often held, and he scowled.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare, or are you going to help me up?"

Neither - none of those options were a suitable suggestion for the man sitting upon the tub. His mind was fueled by muddled emotions as he fondly reminisced about the times he'd spent in the apartment when he and Waylon shared a business, and his heart drummed faster as memories turned to fantasies and fantasies turned to desires.

Alcohol blew upon the smoke that drifted from gullet to mouth, aggravating the small embers until they erupted into furious flames. A wildfire ruptured within him, burning logical thoughts to ash and causing his blood to simmer, bursting a few of the vessels across his face. A heated blush, one that made him curse himself and rue the day of his birth, consumed him as his eyes hungrily feasted upon the man sprawled upon the tile floor.

"Ugh, never mind, I can do it myself-,"

Smithers' hand that reached out for the edge of the sink that hovered overhead was stopped amidst its travels. A set of foreign fingers laced about his own, catching the timid man when his guard was down. Suddenly, the room was a bustle of voices despite the fact that the two were loitering in uncomfortable silence – the mind's way of breaking tension.

"M-Moe, what are you doing?"

"Don't worries about its," the shorter of the two panted, his chest grazing against Smithers' with each shallow breath.

Protest was clawing at the tip of his tongue, yet never saw the outer portions of Waylon's mouth. He bit his cheek, retracting his dispute and swallowing it with the residue of scotch that dressed his tongue. His body shuddered as the bulbous nose of the other grazed against the side of his face, and his hands moved without his permission as they slid to Moe's chest. He placed shabby pressure against Moe's ribs in an unconvincing plea to stop, his fingers only taking it upon themselves to curl into the fabric and pull Moe closer.

A sudden lust, the lust that ravaged the bodies of animals during their mating seasons, ravished each of the men. Their fantasies, despite the vast differences between them, hinged to form a solidified dream as their foreheads connected and their lips quivered with anticipation. Perhaps it wasn't the love they'd each been seeking so desperately over the span of their lives, but sloppy, drunken lust was sufficient enough for the moment.

That moment held no regard for consequences or awkwardness, nor did it house a single shred of care for dignity or true love – that moment had given up on such unattainable things. Whether it was alcohol or a cruel joke by fate, the two men were conscious enough to understand their actions. But inhibitions and good intentions had no place within a moment of unbridled passion, and they certainly had no place in two lives that had already disregarded them long ago.

Hands roamed over limbs and fisted within hair, lips and tongues danced together in a dishearteningly-desperate samba, clothes were tossed in every direction and forgotten in moments of blind euphoria; it wasn't love, but it was sex – and sex seemed enough to heal a damaged heart if only for the night.

* * *

"Face it: as much as you'd like to be, you're not perfect.

Mistakes will be made in both your freelance career and life.

Instead of fearing mistakes, remind yourself that there's plenty to learn from them.

If nothing else, you'll learn that a mistake doesn't mean the end of the world.

In fact, it might be the beginning of a new one."

― Michael Law


	13. Bad Connection

"The mistake the two of us made,' I said, 'was that we skimped the foreplay.

I'm not blaming you, it was as much my fault as yours, but it was a fault nonetheless."

― J.M. Coetzee, Summertime

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Bad Connection

The blinding sun of morning had replaced the full moon that had brought about such animalistic behavior in the hours prior. The radiance poured through the thin draperies that were cast over the bedroom window; it showered down upon the tangled mess of limbs that had become of Waylon and Moe. They'd somehow made their way throughout the apartment as their drunken romp reached intensity and had crashed upon the mattress somewhere between climax and orgasm.

Eyelids twitched at the disturbance caused by the light, which Waylon attempted to ignore by turning onto his side to bury his face within a pillow. The soft cushion he had expected through his grogginess, however, wasn't what greeted him; his face nuzzled against a fleshy substance, sprigs of curly hair tickling against his cheek. The scent of musky cologne and spunk infiltrated his nose, and he rose to sit upright. His head throbbed as his mind was seemingly kicking him for the copious amount of alcohol he'd gulped the night before, and a dull ache dashed across the lower portion of his abdomen.

He groaned as he hid his face in the palm of his hands, terrified of the repressed memories of the night that would surely resurface as soon as he peered to the other body in the space next to him.

"Oh God, what happened last night?" The words of shame spoken by so many after nights of lust transitioned into mornings of humiliation.

A cleansing breath attempted to clear away the anxiety that buzzed behind his ribs as Smithers forced himself to lift his head from his hands and face the man he laid with. A glimmer of hope burned like a candle behind his eyes as he hoped that, by some chance, they hadn't crossed boundaries friends should never go beyond. The flicker dimmed as his eyes fell upon the shirtless body of Moe, yet that flame wasn't fully extinguished as he reasoned with himself.

"Okay, so Moe's shirtless in my bed. A lot of guys sleep shirtless…. Please tell me I have clothes on," he muttered as his head lowered in disappoint and embarrassment. His hands trembled as he peeled the ruffled comforter from his body, holding his breath as his eyes were clenched shut in fear. A single eye peered open, his heart unable to handle viewing his own nude figure with both eyes, and glanced downward toward the foot of his bed. "…. Damn."

He lowered the blanket in disgust for himself, attempting to conceal the shame of letting the situation get so out of hand. He shifted toward the other, gazing upon the peaceful face and hesitantly reaching to move a curled strand of hair that swooped across Moe's forehead. Smithers' hand halted as a dull buzzing caught his ear – had the buzz not been accompanied by the familiar whistles of his ringtone, he could have sworn it was the pounding of his heart.

"Shit, what time is it?"

* * *

Lisa's legs swung thoughtlessly beneath one of the elongated tables in the school's cafeteria. Her plate of mixed greens and other veggies sat untouched beside her, her focus anywhere but on her lunch. She held a pen tightly within her grasp as she wrote in her log:

 _Dear Log,_

 _One more spat with Bart and Mom says I won't be able to play in the music parade. I haven't come this far to let my idiot of a brother take that away from me, so I've decided a peaceful protest would be my best approach. Whatever he says, I can't let it get to me – or I can't show that it does anyway. Either way, the flyers Mr. Largo asked me to pass out already have me down as the lead…._

 _But the music parade isn't my only focus; I'm still worried about Mr. Smithers. I haven't heard anything about Mr. Burns' condition or about Mr. Smithers'. I've decided that if I don't hear anything soon, I'm going to use the flyers as an excuse to see them again and, hopefully, get some more news._

Her writing carried her along the current of her thoughts, which ebbed deeper within her subconscious and left her surroundings to fizzle away. The words flowed freely from her hand as her chin rested upon the other, and with each letter her awareness of her cramping hand and the fingers snapping in front of her face faded.

"Lisa," Bart called calmly for the final time, his temper near to burst. "Lisa! Hello, Earth to Lis-ss-s-a!"

"Huh?"

"Jeez, I was starting to think we lost you forever," her brother teased as he set his plate in the space opposite her. He took his seat, taking a bite out of the grease-laden pizza on his plate as he spoke, soggy crumbs flinging across the table, "so, what are you writing there? More stuff about your boy-yy-yfriend Mr. Smithers."

Lisa scoffed as she slammed her log shut after brushing the soggy crust from its pages, "it's not like that, Bart!"

"Then what is it like, huh?"

"It's complicated."

"Complicated is a math test, Lis, not Mr. Smithers," Bart retorted with a chuckle. "Well, he's complicated alright, but that's not what I mean."

"Really, Bart, a jab at his sexuality?" The young girl grumbled as she rolled her eyes, clutching the bridge of her nose as she continually reminded herself not to be confrontational. "Look, if you leave me alone, I promise I'll explain everything after school."

Her brother's face lit with skepticism as he jutted out his pinky finger and curled it toward her, "pinky-swear."

"Alright, alright."

Their pinkies locked in a tight grip with each other as their promise was passed between them. A simple pinky-swear was supposed to hold the weight of the world – yet Lisa considered it more of a "boy thing" to make such childish gestures to seal a vow.

* * *

Smithers felt his innards inching up his throat as he reached for his phone. The digital numbers on the screen proving that it was well past noon; but that wasn't the number that concerned him; no, that number hovered above the tiny emoticon of a reel of tape – eight new voicemails.

The number hooked its circular ovals about Waylon's neck, squeezing against his Adam's apple until it was near to burst. He swallowed, his fingers hesitantly scanning over the screen to open the voicemails. The icon intimidated him, hungrily staring him down as his reflection upon the screen proved his terror. Suddenly, much to his dismay, the icon vanished and an incoming call flashed upon the screen, showing the same number that had tried to reach him at the bar.

"Oh God, oh God..." He panicked as sweat beaded upon his brow and he answered the call. "H-hello?"

"Smithers!" A sharp, distant yell from the other end of the phone. "Oh, give me that, you bumbling quack!" Burns shouted as his fragile wrist gained the strength to repeatedly snatch at the phone that Dr. Hibbert held.

"Mr. Burns, please calm down," Hibbert beseeched with that playful snicker booming from his chest, "don't want us to have to redo that IV again, do you?"

"Hmmph, if you knew what you were doing, you would have gotten it right the _first_ time," the elder grumbled through a scowl as his arms folded upon his chest.

"Well, in all fairness, you ripped it out fiddling with that remote you've got there."

Smithers barked impatiently into the phone as his eyes stared dully upon the slumbering bartender, "could you hurry it up? Ugh, I'm sorry; it's just been a long night. D-did you need something?"

"Why, yes, Smithers," Burns interjected as he shouted to be heard, "I did need something – you here three hours ago! It's one in the afternoon, you lazy, no-goo-,"

"Oh-ho-kay," the doctor coughed to cover up the insensitive ramblings and placed a hand over the speaker to block out anything other than his voice, "well, as you can tell, Mr. Burns here is a little cranky. He's been asking for you all morning; honestly, I'm shocked you didn't answer the first time we called."

"Uh, yeah, I was a little… tied up."

Before the conversation had time to advance, Waylon felt a stir ripple from one side of the mattress to the other, signaling that Moe was awake.

"Da hells am I?"

"Shush!" Smithers rudely shushed the other as he clamped the palm of his hand over the phone. He glared with eyes as sharp as daggers as they examined the other and slapped a hand gingerly against Moe's thigh. He shouted in a whisper, the words sliding through his teeth, "I'm on the phone! I'll explain all this later, just please be quiet right now."

"Aw geez, did we-?"

"Later!"

Hibbert's brow arched in confusion as he failed to regain the attention of his patient's assistant. He awkwardly chuckled as he purposelessly shook his phone as though it were a fault in the signal.

"Uh, Waylon, are you there?" The doctor chortled with a twinge of nervousness as the sounds of Burns' incessant cries of fury flung about the room. "…. Hello?"

Waylon snapped out of the hung over trance he'd been drawn into, his eyes darting away from the stark-naked man beside him and to his own feet that hung shamefully toward the floor. He sighed heavily as his response came as a frustrated groan, "y-yeah, I'll be right there. Just… just give him something to make him sleep until I get there."

* * *

The phone call had ended many moments prior, leaving that awkward "morning after" cloud hanging overhead. The two men sat propped against the headboard of Waylon's bed, their lower halves so modestly covered in stark contrast to how brutally exposed they'd been the night prior. How ironic it was that they'd been so careless and had so freely exposed themselves to one another, and so easily ravaged each other's bodies only hours before, and yet when light reveals what happens in the dark, they stay silent. What had been so erratically done in the dark was dropped to a faint pulse when held to the light – and embarrassment was all that remained of a night of drunken passion.

"S-so's," Moe coughed in an attempt to shatter the silence that kept them both frozen upon the bed, "Burns' pretty mad at youse, huh?"

"Really, Moe?"

"What?"

" _What?_ " Smithers scoffed as the frustration he harbored toward himself lashed out against the other. "We had sex – that's what! How could I let this happen? How could _you_ let this happen?"

The bartender's eyes widened as a blend of resentment and shock danced upon the stage of his pupils. He sneered as the comment sorely offended him, "hey, I didn't hears youse complain' last night! Don't even try to pin dis on me, Waylon; dat was just as much yo' fault as it was mine."

Smithers heaved a heavy breath as he clambered out of the bed, snatching the sheet to cover himself, not caring about leaving Moe with the shame of his nudity sprawled upon the bed.

"I don't have time for this; I have to take a shower and get to the hospital, and you have to get out of here."

"C'mon, Waylon, don't be dat way…."

A fear – a true, raw panic – of having ruined a budding friendship with one night of beers and scotch and a loveless romp left Moe an emotional mess, which he refused to show as he stood from the bed. He trailed behind the taller man's footsteps, stepping on the bottom of the sheet in a successful attempt to stop Waylon in his tracks.

"Look, it was stupid, yeah," the barkeep muttered as he wrapped his arms about the other's muscular waist, "but it didn't mean nothin's – youse know, just like dat kiss back at city council. We can just forget dat it happened and move on, right? Just like we's did befo'?"

Weakened by the whispers and the sentiment, Waylon slightly collapsed into Moe's grasp.

"I-it can't happen again."

* * *

"In a perfect world, you could fuck people without giving them a piece of your heart.

And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you'll never see again."

― Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders


	14. Falling Out

"You get towards the end of life - no, not life itself, but of something else: the end of any likelihood of change in that life.

You are allowed a long moment of pause, time enough to ask the question: what else have I done wrong?"

― Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

Falling Out

"I could have driven myself," the disgruntled passenger complained as he pressed his forehead to the palm of his hand, almost able to feel the aching throbs against the flesh.

Moe sighed when the awkward silence that was held tauntingly overhead was cleared away by Waylon's protest. Given the choice, the barkeep would have had small-talk over constant grumbles of aversion, but with their circumstances, any form of communication was better than none.

"I just don't wants youse gettin' da boot cause of somethin's I did," he muttered the weak confession as his fingers kneaded at the steering wheel. "If Burns tries to fires ya, I'll be dere to explain dat it was my fault and dis whole thing will just goes away."

Smithers heavily groaned, "what happened last night won't just go away, Moe."

* * *

Obnoxious clangs of the final bell to end the school day shattered the eardrums of teachers, students, and staff alike. The desolate hallways of Springfield Elementary were suddenly flooded with swarms of children, Lisa shouldering her way through the crowd in an attempt to reach her locker before her brother could reach her. Her steps were dense as she dodged and weaved her fellow classmates, finally ducking under the sea of elbows that led to her locker. She grumbled about the crowd's constant bumping and shoving as she tried multiple times to enter her combination.

"C'mon! C'mon!" She urged in impatient whispers as her fingers spun the dial and her eyes fluttered through the mass of children in search for her brother's spikey, blonde hair. Finally, after what seemed an endless struggle, the lock popped open and fell away from its protective positioning; Lisa sighed in relief as she yanked open the locker.

Her hands fumbled over stacks of notebooks and textbooks as she bent halfway into the locker's metallic interior, the cold burning her flesh as her shoulders crammed beyond the framing. Her eyes hunted for the strap of her saxophone's case, her fingers curling as if on pure instinct when the scratchy material of the Velcro strap grazed her hand. She tugged upon the strap, careful not to cause an avalanche of school supplies in the process, and lugged the weighty instrument from the locker's confines. In a heave and with a strained grunt, she threw the strap across one shoulder and over the other, carrying the instrument as though she were a musical tortoise.

"Hey, Lisa!"

The distant call caught the child's attention instantly, her brother's voice not difficult to decipher from the crowd's chattering.

"… crap…" she muttered as she pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping in a blend of defeat and the crushing weight of the sax.

Bart scurried through the crowd and slyly propped himself upon the locker next to Lisa's with the palm of his hand. His smug expression over finally gaining insight into his sister's recent peculiar behavior diluted slightly when he noticed the case strapped about the younger's shoulders.

"Hey, you pinky-swore," he grumbled with frustration as Lisa rudely pushed past him, nearly knocking him to the floor with the oversized leather case.

"Sorry, Bart," she rushed with a cheeky grin upon her face as her feet quickly carried her a great distance from her brother, "but I have to go; band practice!"

The ten-year-old scoffed and his eyes rolled with aggravation, "yeah, whatever…. But you're telling me when you get home!"

* * *

Waylon hurried toward the dreary hospital room where his irate boss resided, Moe tagging along as a young pup would tag its owner's heels. The ward rolled his eyes and huffed with frustration as he felt the clicks of the other man's shoes grazing against the heels of his own.

"Would you please stay in the waiting room?!" He spat, droplets of irritation flinging from his crooked frown, as he tilted his head toward Moe, chin to shoulder. Smithers shrugged off his efforts when the bartender showed no signs of leaving his side. "Alright, fine… just keep your mouth shut, okay? I don't want to put Mr. Burns through any more stress than I already have."

A final snort of a jeer tainted the air before the two men entered the cramped room. Waylon's eyes narrowed upon a busty blonde woman who was busily tending to Burns' every whim and fancy.

"Um, thanks for taking care of him," he groaned the mock appreciation through his tightly-gritted teeth, wanting to remain polite despite his instant distaste for the woman, "but I can handle things from here." His attention turned to Burns, who glared with black daggers of icy indignation, "I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier, sir, I was-,"

"I know, I know; you were "tied up", I heard you over the phone, you twit."

"W-well, yes, I was… b-but I'm here now. Is there anything I can do for you, sir? Maybe get you something to eat or drink? I bet you're starving."

Burns scoffed in a twistedly devious chuckle, gesturing a frail hand toward the lovely nurse that continued to hover nearby as she readjusted the medicine bags.

"Actually, Smithers, this delightful young lady here already brought me my lunch, _and_ she's agreed to help me around the house once I'm released from this loathsome place."

Taken aback by the hiss that slithered from the elder's mouth and weaved about his neck created a flood of panic within the assistant's already churned gullet; he forced a feeble smile as a breath of disbelief flitted from the stiffened chest, "b-but, sir, I already told Dr. Hibbert that I'd be taking care of you."

"Yes, well, you had your chance," Burns barked as his brow knitted and his eyes narrowed upon the paling face before him. He chuckled deviously at the horror that flickered across the other's pastel cheeks. "At ease, Smithers, I'm not firing you… yet, that is. I'm merely demoting you to a lesser position – cooking, cleaning, tending to the garden; you know, little odd jobs about the place."

Protest bled from Waylon's tongue as he roughly bit down upon it to prevent from pleading for Burns' mercy. A deep inhale married with a reluctant nod, "of course, I understand. You're right; I should have been here on time. I wasn't reliable and this is what happens to unreli-,"

"Jesus Christ, Waylon!" Moe snapped as he chimed into the conversation with initial frustration. He approached the man he'd bedded the night before, sharing an awkward glance with him before focusing on the ailing elder. "Look here, Burns. Dis is all one big mix ups; I was, uh," a pause as the barkeep's mind grasped for a lie that would cover the depraved truth, "asked Waylon fo' some helps at da bar, and we's didn't finish up until about an hour ago."

"Is that supposed to be in his defense?" Mr. Burns chortled as his hand weakly slapped his rigid kneecap. "Oh, that is rich! Knowing he was helping some barfly such as yourself makes me wonder if he's even fit to tend to the lesser tasks I've given him. Now, no more of this tomfoolery, I need my rest."

Smithers jumped at the words and rushed to the window, "would you like these blinds closed, sir?"

"Yes, yes, um, Nurse, be a lamb and shut those for me."

"Right away, Mr. Burns," the woman agreed with a bubbly giggle and a swish of her hips. She turned upon the pearl-white heels that dressed her dainty feet, swiftly stepping in front of the appalled man as she fixed the blinds and draperies. "This okay, hon?"

"Yes, splendid."

* * *

Lisa eagerly sat upon the edge of her seat, her saxophone clasped betwixt her knees as she waited to rehearse the melody she had composed the night prior. Her eyes danced over the heads of her fellow bandmates, impatience gnawing at her innards as they continuously played their infinite concerto. Her legs bounced and shook the saxophone as her fingers anxiously wrought at the keys, having never felt her solo was so far into the musical sets.

"Students, students," Mr. Largo called after clearing his throat and snapping his conducting wand against his music stand. "Let's all give a big round of applause to our very own musical genius – the musical genius who is going to save this pathetic little parade from going down the tubes another year – Lisa Simpson."

The somewhat heavy-set teacher led the classroom in steady claps as Lisa sprung from her seat and hurriedly lugged her instrument to the front of the room. She nodded with a smile stretching from one side of her face to the other, "thank you, Mr. Largo. Um, today, I'd like to do something a little different. I practically stayed up all night working on this composition, so I hope you all will like it."

The eight-year-old placed the messily assorted papers upon the stand, which she adjusted to her puny height shortly thereafter. A delicate giggle unleashed the nerves that bundled in her chest and she lifted her instrument, her lips forming skillfully about the reed as she began the opening to her self-made symphony.

* * *

Stiff air suffocated the interior of the limousine, the mood equally as sour as the faces upon the riders' faces. Smithers took the wheel for the first time since Moe had become involved in the fragile dominoes that were crashing within Waylon's life. He gripped the wheel until his jaundiced knuckles paled to a ghastly shade of white, his fingertips growing red from the relentless pressure. The palms of his hands forcefully slammed against the horn as a car across the way sped to pull out in front of them.

"Oh, great driving, asshole!" The infuriated executive's assistant shouted as his hand curled into a crude gesture that rested atop the steering wheel. He grumbled a string of unintelligible swears and derogatory curses, which earned a breathless chuckle from his passenger. "What the hell are you laughing at? We could have been killed."

Moe fought against another snicker that tickled against the back of his throat, playing it off as a raspy cough into his hand.

"Don't be such a drama queen dere, Waylon. We wasn't goin's'ta crash into somebodies fifteen-feet away from us," a response that was followed by a spine-numbing silence. "A-heh, uh, youse want me to drive? Ya know, until youse calm down and whatnots?"

"For the last time, Moe, I know how to drive! I don't need you holding my hand every two seconds because you think I'm going to fall apart!"

Perhaps he'd leaked a bit too much in his spat that was blinded by the anger that scorched his innards. Hatred seemed to be the driving force that fueled his vulnerability; causing him to show his weakness when it was most important to appear strong and unfazed. He groaned as he peered from one mirror to the next, using his yielding into traffic as an excuse to check his face for any underhanded tears that may have painted his face. He sniffled as he shifted in his seat and turned to face the bartender.

"I'm fine," he lied swiftly despite his watery eyes and tousled hair contradicting his every word. "Nothing means anything anymore. My boss is dying _and_ he hates me, I'm well on my way to becoming an alcoholic, and I slept with the town's bartender – but that doesn't mean anything, because good, ole Smithers is just supposed to lay down and take it, right?"

A poorly timed attempt to lighten the mood and prevent the crumbling of the driver, Moe interjected with the same humor that had previously won over the other, "well, youse did last night, anyways."

"Shut up! Just shut up! Get out," Smithers harshly barked as his hand furiously threw the stretch limousine into park, the wheels tilted sloppily upon the curb in front of Moe's Tavern.

"But-,"

"Now, Moe!"

* * *

Lisa heaved in heavy pants as her brilliant piece of music was unleashed from her core and presented to her classmates and teacher. She smiled weakly, her cheeks brushed with shattered rubies as she tried desperately to regain her breath, and bowed her head.

"S-so," she panted with longing in her eyes, "how… how was it?"

Mr. Largo stood with an unreadable expression of befuddlement, unsure of what he thought of the hauntingly melancholy notes that had spewed forth from the young girl's sax.

"Um, it was great – if we were rehearsing for a funeral! Look, kid, you're this town's last hope for a great music parade, and my last chance at having my name in the paper for directing such a thing. So, cut all the depressing stuff; I want light, I want whimsical, I want happy, happy, happy!"

Lisa's dangerously high hopes crashed and burned in the flames of rejection. Her smile faded into a pitiful pout as she nodded and hung her head toward her chest. She lugged the instrument back to her seat in preparation to continue alongside her classmates.

"Right… I understand."

* * *

"The cracks in old friendships are measured in awkward pauses."

― Darin Strauss


	15. A Bitter Interruption

"You may think it all very fine, Mr. Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my jealousy; but take care you don't rouse my hate instead.

And when you have once extinguished my love, you will find it no easy matter to kindle it again."

― Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

A Bitter Interruption

As soon as she set down the long stretch of road that led to Burns' Manor, Lisa felt the tension. Days had slipped away and brought forth unsurpassable strain in her life – Bart's constant pestering and having not heard any word on Burns' condition did little to help her nerves. The flyers prompting her big debut as the lead in the music parade absorbed the heavy thuds of her heart as they were pressed to her chest.

Her head spun as the blinding sunlight hit her eyes, which had yet to adjust to anything but the tiny font and musical notes she'd spent scrawling across several pieces of paper the night prior; she was determined to produce an upbeat serenade in spite of the trials and tribulations that had come about. She clung the flyers tighter to her chest as a light breeze began to rustle them, a few leaves falling in signs that summer was finally giving way to autumn – one thing that gave her heart a warm dose of joy.

"I hope Mr. Smithers is alright," she said to herself in a soft whisper as she continued to walk down the seemingly endless line of concrete.

* * *

Waylon knelt on the curiously-rough carpet in the expansive den, a handheld vacuum clutched so tightly within his grasp that his knuckles ached and paled. Such a tight grip wasn't necessary, but seemed to be the only grasp he had left on the handle of his sorely-wounded dignity. He brushed sweat from his brow with the bunched sleeve of his button-down, panting heavily as he had aggressively attacked whatever specs of dust and dander had been embedded in the carpet. Years' worth of dust and grime surely filled the canister attachment from his merciless cleaning spree – pristine perfection still seeming far from his reach.

"Ugh!" He groaned as he meticulously examined the fabric, taking note of each and every particle that he'd somehow missed. "What is wrong with this thing?" He shouted in a harsh whisper as he glared at the vacuum as though it were a spawn of each and every hatred he harbored.

A distant, feminine hum caught his ear and made his stomach lurched. Out of all the aggression of blistering jealousy, she was perhaps the leading cause; he hated how she flitted about the manor, tending to the elder man, who hadn't budge from his bed since the moment he'd arrived home, as Waylon had done for so many years. But the fact of her being of Burns' service was nowhere near as deep a lashing, as painful of a bite than the gratitude she earned by doing such simple tasks – gratitude that Waylon had slaved himself to earn but had never received.

Bitterness climbed to the back of his throat, leaving a horrid taste of bile upon his tongue, as he clambered up from the floor and set the vacuum in its carrying case, which he propped against the wall before following the annoying, chipper ditty. He shadowed the woman as she bustled to the kitchen and threw on an apron, watching her every move with narrowed eyes.

"U-um, not to be rude or anything," he spoke up with a light cough into his hand, the urge to interrupt the out-patient nurse becoming overwhelming, "but you probably shouldn't hum so loudly. Mr. Burns has surprisingly good hearing, and you don't want to bother him."

"Oh, Monty's fine with it," she chirped with a giggle as she tilted head to shoulder to view the man behind her. "He said a little music was just what this place needed."

A near lethal dose of resentment fluttered throughout Waylon's body, which went rigid with the envy that boiled within his gullet. Jealousy had never been a suit that fit him well, yet he wore it plenty of times, just enough times to know it was one worth squeezing into if it meant winning the affection he'd so deeply desired. He wanted her job – his old job – and it would have been easy enough to discredit her; he could simply snatch something that meant more than perky breasts and high-spirited melodies to Burns and claim the nurse a thief.

"Oh, really?" He pressed with a slight scoff, forcing a smile that pained him as his teeth gritted toward the bone. "Well, he must really like you; usually he wants peace and quiet when he's trying to rest."

The woman, who busily waltzed about the kitchen with various utensils, was on the cusp of responding before the blaring chimes of the doorbell stole her words. She swiftly turned upon her heel and began to head toward the sound, only to be stopped shortly thereafter by Waylon's palm gesturing her to continue her work in the kitchen.

"I'll get it," he muttered as he gave a phony grin to the overzealous woman before scowling at the wall. "You just finish up here; Mr. Burns' will get upset if his food is late."

* * *

The locked door both fascinated and puzzled Lisa as she drew in a hitched breath, her finger hovering over the doorbell once again, questioning whether she should press it or turn back and leave. The decision was yanked from her will just as she was on the verge of making it herself as the hefty door was heaved open. She smiled at the man who answered the door, clearing her throat as he overlooked her for a moment, "hello, Mr. Smithers."

"Hmm?" Smithers hummed as the voice drew his attention lower toward the ground. He smiled weakly at the child, allowing his guard to drop slightly as he opened the door with a bit more relaxation in the hinges. "Oh, Lisa, what are you doing here?"

"I just came to… um… drop off these flyers," she stammered, stumbling over whether she should bring up the topic of Burns so early in the conversation. "I got the lead in the music festival, and my teacher wanted me to pass these out to everyone in town."

Waylon eyed the mess of flyers the young girl was struggling to carry, gently taking them from her and straightening them as he stepped aside to invite the child into the expansive manor.

"Well, congratulations, little Lisa. Uh, I could get you a paperclip for these, if you want."

The youngster beamed with a nod as she took up on the invitation and entered the building. She strolled along the entryway, following Smithers' fast-paced steps into a spacious, den-like area that was lined with shelves of books (most of which were just for show and had never been touched other than to be dusted). She sat in one of the plush armchairs and watched as the man scurried to an aged, raggedy desk and rummaged for a paperclip. Lisa gave an appreciative grin and nod of the head when the papers were neatly returned to her, restrained by the finest piece of metal money could have bought.

"There you go; that should make things easier for you."

"Thanks," she said gratefully as she swished her legs about, glancing anxiously about the room as her mind whispered for her to bring up the elder's condition. "Um, I actually didn't just come here to give you a flyer-,"

"I know," Waylon interrupted with a weighty sigh as he settled into the chair that sat opposite of Lisa. "You're here to ask about Mr. Burns, right?" A rather nervous nod from the girl was followed by another groan of a sigh from the executive's assistant. "I'm sorry, I know you've been wanting to keep up with what's going on, it's just that things have gotten… complicated."

"You mean, he's gotten worse?"

"No – well, yes, but that's not what I mean. But, this isn't about me and my problems," he muttered in more of a reminder to himself than a response to Lisa. "Well, he's not any better, but things are about the same. We're all still waiting on the biopsy results."

It were as though the devil himself had decided to interject into the conversation as that busty blonde glided into the room, a cordless phone clutched delicately in one of her dainty hands.

"Waylon," she began with an unusually lack-luster voice as she gestured for the man with a curling of a finger. "Dr. Hibbert's on the phone, he wants to speak to you."

Waylon's eyes trailed from the woman to the girl, to whom he nodded apologetically toward as he excused himself, "I'm sorry, Lisa, I have to take this."

"I understand," Lisa agreed with a sympathetic smile, shifting in her seat as her eyes followed the adults out of the room.

* * *

Anxiety eroded any other senses that may have once filled him with the ability to feel. He was numb as the phone passed from her hand to his, and in that moment she seemed to be a comfort rather than a source of deep-seeded jealousy. He cleared his throat as he pressed the phone to his ear, heart racing and slowly inching its way toward his shoes in preparation for the worst.

"H-hello?"

Dr. Hibbert heaved a professional breath as he gathered himself, fiddling with the file on his desk as he started to speak, "hello, Waylon, um, I have Burns' biopsy results. I'm afraid it isn't what we had hoped," the medic's heart was heavy as the news he had prepared himself to deliver stared him deadly in the face, "the tumor did come back to be cancerous. I'd like to see you and Burns in my office tomorrow morning to discuss the findings…." A brutally raw silence that was littered only by shaky breaths of a man fighting tears. "Waylon? Are you there?"

Was he there? Waylon wasn't sure where he was anymore, or if he was anywhere. He hadn't realized the phone had been taken from his hand or that he'd fallen to lean against the wall, which caught him just before he hit the carpet he'd spent hours cleaning.

The nurse held the phone to her ear as she responded for the crumbling assistant, her eyes filled with worry and pity for the man, "um, they'll be there, doctor. Thanks for the call…. Uh-huh, bye-bye."

* * *

Lisa had perfected the art of overhearing conversations that held some significance to her. The sounds of the choked sobs and the feminine coos of attempted comfort clued her in to what had been an unresolved ending for weeks. There was no doubt that the diagnosis that had left the needles of pending anticipation into everyone involved had revealed the worst – Burns had cancer.

* * *

"I was depressed, but that was a side issue.

This was more like closing up shop, or, say, having a big garage sale, where you look at everything you've bought in your life, and you remember how much it meant to you, and now you just tag it for a quarter and watch 'em carry it off, and you don't care.

That's more like how it was."

― Jane Smiley, A Thousand Acres


	16. Vicious Cycle

"Life is a repeated cycle of getting lost and then finding yourself again.

There are many smaller cycles within that cycle where you get lost to a smaller degree and then remember yourself again.

Sometimes you do it to yourself on purpose, consciously or unconsciously.

Every time you get lost it is so that you can learn something or experience something from a different perspective."

― Jay Woodman

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

Vicious Cycle

The sudden sound of glass breaking caught Lisa off-guard and caused her to jump in her seat, and she shifted further in the direction of the door. Her heart's pace began to pick up from its once frozen state as the heavy door to the office-like area creaked open. When the elder's assistant reemerged and came back into focus, he looked nothing like Lisa had expected from the choking sobs and the shattering glass from the other side of the door; Waylon seemed surprisingly held together, as though his emotions were paste that could dry just as easily as it was made into a liquid. His glasses were adjusted, hovering over the dried stains of past tears that trailed down his slightly rosy face. It was obvious he had been emotionally wrecked and that he was still caving in upon himself, but he wore a rather well-constructed mask as he approached the child.

"U-um, I hate to cut your visit short, Lisa, but," Waylon began in a rather timid and shaky voice before clearing his throat and readjusting the violet bowtie that seemed to be strangling his words. He drew in a breath before continuing in the monotone voice of false professionalism he'd perfected over the years, "but, some things have come up that I need to attend to, and-,"

Lisa sighed as she felt herself being forced out of the loop she'd worked so hard to wriggle her way into, "I can help," she announced with a childlike hopefulness, "please, Mr. Smithers, I'm sure I can do something to help with whatever it is you have to do."

"No, no," Waylon responded in a quick snap that he hadn't intended, instantly regretting the tone when the young girl's hopeful face faded to that of bitter disappointment. "Look, Lisa, you're a smart kid, but there's really nothing anybody can do at this point," the cracking emotions within the man took over and caused his negative thoughts to frolic from his mouth beyond his own control. "Please, just go home and let me worry about this."

He hadn't meant to concern the child, but that was precisely what he'd done; or perhaps she would have been concerned regardless, considering her constant wanting – needing – to be kept up-to-date on every fine-combed detail of Burns' condition and the inner-workings of Smithers' mind. Either way, Lisa's expression showed an array of different levels of worry – worry for the outcome of the diagnosis, worry for how said diagnosis would affect the man who had far too much on his plate as it was, and worry for all the trivial things a youngster generally had to endure.

Her lips turned into a thin knife-slash of determination and she stood firmly in her stance, hands upon hips and feet planted strongly to the marbled tiles of the floor. It was clear she wasn't one to neither be pushed over nor bribed with any sort of monetary gain when the situation was passionate enough. Her pursed lips began to part in order to speak, but her itching words were stolen by the booming sound of the ailing elder's voice winding down the stairs.

"Nurse!" The cry came loud and clear before trailing off into a brief silence and followed by a yell equally as brash yet less sure of itself, "Smithers?! Who in the blazes was calling at this hour of the morning? Some people need their sleep!"

Smithers, torn between the burning to jump at the call of his boss and not wanting to seem impolite to one of the few people that showed interest in the matter, felt his heart begin to palpitate and nervousness to slither about his throat. He swallowed dryly and tugged upon his bowtie in hopes it would provide an answer to an unknown question.

"Morning? It's almost one in the afternoon," Lisa chimed in with her signature matter-of-fact tone after the shouting had calmed to mere irritated grumbles that could barely be heard through the walls.

Waylon's heart crept into his mouth as the nonchalant comment caused the crystals of fought back tears to crack and begin to well behind his glasses, which caused him to rather offensively turn his back to the other, "h-he's been a little lost lately," he admitted in a defeated grouse. "Please, go home now. Everything will be fine – I'll be fine… maybe."

"Things don't sound fi-,"

"Lisa, please! I don't have time for this!"

Head high despite the salty brine of hurt feelings that flitted to the back of her throat, Lisa swept across the room and toward the door, taking a final glance at the man who had barked at her so hastily. The anger that Waylon had expected to be smeared upon her face wasn't the look he received, but rather a look of genuine sympathy, which warmed what pieces of his heart hadn't been shattered against his ribs from the devastating phone call.

"Um, you will still keep me posted on what's going on, won't you?"

That hopeful gleam in otherwise dimmed eyes was something a man of stone couldn't have destroyed with callousness, "of course."

* * *

In spite of the bitterness that tangoed with the stale air as he ascended the staircase, Waylon managed to force a crooked smile and to choke back the tears that trickled along his gullet. His heart was heavy, yet his outer appearance was far too collected and composed for one – including Burns' out-patient nurse that he'd bumped into on the final flight of the staircase – to know that he was silently, mentally placing gun to temple.

"Sorry," he muttered as his shoulder had grazed against the woman's, who turned to him with eyes startled for a moment. She forced a smile for his sake, her ruby lips complimenting the pearly teeth that beamed amongst the darkness of their reason for being there.

She giggled, at which Waylon cringed, "it's okay. Waylon – it is Waylon, right?" A careless nod to prove she was correct was her only answer. "Um, Waylon, I know I'm the nurse and it's my job to tell Mr. Burns about the diagnosis, but I really think it'd be less of a blow if _you_ told him."

The man conceptually cursed the woman and thought of how she'd taken every liberty he once had only to hand him the bag when it came to revealing the elder's mortality.

"So, now you want me to step in?" He grumbled what was meant to stay but a sour thought.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing, I was just…" Waylon grasped for verses that evaded him, searching for the formality that never existed when faced with such emotions that had to be stuffed within a bottle and tossed out to the sea of stomach ulcers. "I mean, like you said, it is _your_ job. Besides, I don't think I could handle that. So, you go right on ahead and do what Mr. Burns hired you to do; I need a break."

Had he seemed as cold and inconsiderate as the baffled expression that overwrought the nurse's made-up face made him feel? His tongue abruptly ached with the longing to reel the words back into their housing within his inner self, only to realize that they had gone and swam up the stream of all his thoughtless rambles of the day. Waylon never thought himself to be a man of short response when times boiled down to life and death, but perhaps one discovery led to a multitude of others.

"Not that I don't want to be here for him, but I have a lot of other things on my mind."

Her confused expression only worsened and Waylon swiftly bit into the tongue that was causing him such grief.

"I'll be back in a couple of hours; I need to clear my head. Please, break it to him easy."

A seldom nod, "as easily as I can. Now, go, everything here will be just fine, nurse's honor."

* * *

The concrete paths that overextended to form the many streets of Springfield had never seemed to be as extensive as when Waylon was left to walk them alone, the foreseeable death of the man he'd poured so much time, emotion, and his in many ways his whole life and being into looming over his head. The thoughts twirled about his vision, blurring the scuffed shoes upon his aching feet as his legs, without permission of his own will, had carried him down the familiar pavement that led to the dubious bar nestled in the midst of the quaint little town. Waylon rubbed his eyes, spectacles sliding atop his head and forcing him to readjust them and simultaneously squint upward to where his dreadful thoughts lingered. There were no machines or neon lines falling flat across them as he'd expected, only the rotted sign with chaotically spattered red paint spelling out the name of the bar's owner – Moe.

"Ugh! Why do I do these things to myself?!" He bellowed with no regard to any passing residents that he'd once thought invisible walking aside him on the street. The dirty glare he received from a woman pushing a baby carriage and the wailing of the infant who was snuggled inside caused Waylon's teeth to painfully sink into his lower lip, and he began to wonder if Burns had finally truly caused him to break the realm of sanity.

He quietly slumped into the bar; head hung low as bile bubbled in his gullet and scorched his throat. Regret was amongst the concoction of bile and froth as he'd made a point to avoid the man behind the bar since their last steamy encounter, more as a way to protect his own heart from attaching than to force Moe's to separate. The assistant's broad shoulders were slumped in the stance that made his posture nearly identical to that of the bartender, who was busily chatting with Homer about the man everyone seemed to detest – Monty Burns.

"I's gots ta tell ya, Homer," Moe spat with the sharpened tongue of a filed battle axe, his words sharper than any knife to ever meet flesh. "I'm kinda hopin's dat Burns croaks. Who da hells does he thinks he is anyways? Runnin' ova Waylon-," a brief pause and a ruby dust across his cheeks forced Moe to correct himself as he scrabbled over words, "a-and da rest of youse guys – like dats. If I was youse, I'd sue fo' havin' ta look at his ugly mug all days."

"But, I have to look at your ugly mug all day, Moe," Homer responded without much thought behind the accidental insult, taking a deep swig from the foamy glass of beer he'd been served just moments prior. "Besides, why do you care? It's not like he sent _you_ a lousy fruit basket for saving his life."

"Shut up! I sent that basket, you boob!"

Was that aloud? Was that another shout from the cliff of insanity where Waylon felt his grip growing ever weaker? Or had it been a mere thought as he'd envisioned, a sign that he hadn't lost every wit about him?

Homer glared at his supervisor, affronted by the bark that had surprised him, "sheesh, who cheesed you off?"

"Well, you aren't exactly my favorite person at the moment," Smithers snapped back, his sardonic tongue working in speeds far ahead of his mind, which seemed chapters behind the rest of his life's story. "So, could you just leave?"

"Ay, dis is my bar!" The tavern owner interjected with his thick accent rolling with animosity as his narrowed eyes locked upon the disturbed man standing before them. "If anyone's goin's ta kick Homer out, it's me."

"You tell him, Moe!"

"Homer," Moe began with an eerily gentle voice before his throat locked and forced out a raspy shout and his finger jutted toward the door. "Get outs!"

The pudgy man stumbled from the bar stool he was swishing about on, his lips forming a wide-ranging pout within the tuffs of stubble. His shoulders wilted to form a perfectly synced trio of slouching as he clambered from the stool and scurried from the tavern, his face resembling the frightened mice that often scattered along the sticky floor.

Moe cleared his throat as clumsiness threatened to suffocate him, "uh, Waylon…."

"How dare you say that?"

"What? It's yo' name, ain't it?"

"Don't act stupid, Moe, I heard what you said!" Smithers thundered, rushing his palm upward as Moe's lips parted to interrupt the ranting and raving that was sure to be unleashed. "I heard you say you wish Mr. Burns would 'croak'!"

A hasty shrug and a deepened grimace etched along the awkward features of the accused man's face served as an visual to his inner thoughts, "yeah? So whats? Burns is a jerk…. Besides, he's lived dis long, he's probably goin's ta outlive the lot of us. What's da big deal?"

Smithers' throat tautened and withered as he tried to bite back the lashing he longed to force the nonchalant bartender to endure. He sputtered as he strained to gather his thoughts, his words (even if they weren't the kindest or most courteous), but the words he searched for were each replaced with shudders of his chest as he nearly collapsed atop one of the stools, elbows falling atop the bar and his face nuzzling sloppily within the crooks of his arms.

"M-Moe…." He stammered, muffled by the mouth full of felt-like fabric that was heaved into his mouth by his desperate need to breath. "He _is_ dying! Mr. Burns has can-," he couldn't complete the word without his throat collapsing upon itself and constricting with a thick layer of mucus. "Mr. Burns has ca-cancer…."

Whatever horrid bitterness of their drunken night of chaotic passion and the multiple ignored calls and texts that followed vanished as the word seemed to spill upon the bar in the form of salty tears. Moe's heart sunk and his mind was torn between wanting to regret the wish he'd made and the fact that he still stood behind what he'd said. His hands fumbled as one reached out to gently pat one of the broad shoulders of his sobbing patron.

"Oh… aw jeez…."

* * *

"I see you, and I suddenly forget why I was keeping score.

That's why I stayed away, I guess.

It was a last-ditch effort to protect myself.

Because you totally, utterly undo me."

― Andrea Lochen, The Repeat Year


	17. Stubborn as an Ox

"From childhood's hour I have not been.

As others were, I have not seen.

As others saw, I could not awaken.

My heart to joy at the same tone.

And all I loved, I loved alone."

― Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

Stubborn as an Ox

Night had staggered into morning, the newborn sun dousing the tiny bedroom of Waylon's apartment. Sleep had evaded him those dark hours prior and left him having to busy himself to keep what ounce of sanity may have remained within him. He tossed in his bed, turning to face away from the window that now delivered the uninvited light upon him, and sighed against his pillow as memories from yesterdays plagued him with jumbled emotions.

A weighty sigh exhaled from his lips as the obnoxious twinkling noise of his phone flitted from the bedside table and assaulted his ears, which had grown needy of the silence. He groaned as his arm limply and carelessly lashed toward the phone, tugging it to his chest as his eyes adjusted, albeit blurrily without his specs.

The notification of an unread text message glared at him, seeming to mock him as it blinked a sharp light against his darkened eyes:

 _ _New Text Message from Moe:__

 _ _Hey, Waylon – I just kinda wanted to check on ya. Youse was pretty upset when youse left da bar yesterday.__

Damn that man for making him smile at a time when each grin was exhausted by guilt! In spite of the heart-hollowing guiltiness that was caused by the grin, Waylon felt his lips curling upward and his heart fall into a peculiar beat that was typically only jarred by Mr. Burns.

"Damn it, Moe," he muttered in a breath that carried a reluctant, regretful chuckle. His fingers hovered over the empty box that was presented beneath the text message; he had intended to reply, but those intentions were interrupted by the familiar interlude of the preselected ringtone of an incoming call. The name and number that suddenly appeared upon the screen had been the difference between smiling over one man and fretting over another as Waylon's smile dropped and his heart sailed toward his gullet. He answered the phone with a weary voice, "h-hello?"

"Hi, Waylon," the utterly obnoxious cheerfulness of the nurse's voice transferred from one line to the other; Waylon grimaced, not out of fear for his boss' well-being, but out of hatred for the sweetness that adorned the woman's voice – how he hated her! "It's nearly ten o' clock, where are you? You didn't forget about the meeting with Dr. Hibbert, did you?"

Smithers scoffed, "of course not!" He glimpsed to the clock that sat atop the dresser as the clock neared ever-closer toward the time of their due arrival at the medic's office. He groaned and grumbled a rather pitiful excuse, "I'll be there in five minutes. Just try to keep Mr. Burns happy until I get there; I know he couldn't have been too thrilled with the news yesterday-,"

The woman made a shrill cry-like sound before muttering an embarrassing confession, "oh! No, no – I never told him."

"What? What do you mean you didn't tell him? My God, woman, that's your job!"

"I know, I know," she responded shakily from the startle of the sudden temper Waylon had spat forth into the receiver, "but the more I thought about it, the more I thought he'd want you there, and since you never came back yesterday, I just decided against telling him all together."

"But, you said – ugh! Just forget it, I'm on my way," the exasperated man breathed as his hand swiped against his face in frustration before stretching out over the frames of his glasses, which were precariously perched atop the dresser. He ended the unpleasing call as he slipped the spectacles over the bridge of his nose, which ached and throbbed with the events that had transpired. "Well, Waylon, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself…"

* * *

Waylon pulled up to the extravagant manor with knuckles paling as they tighten upon the steering wheel. His eyes wandered over the building with an atypical lackluster; the building had always sparked a subtle hint of wonder and whimsy within his heart ever since his youth, and yet, in the light of each fallen domino over the weeks, the subtle spark was stomped out completely. Perhaps the many tears he'd wept in those weeks had doused the feelings and left him with the numbness that drove him mad. As the wheels of his vehicle slowed and the compact car came to a halt, Smithers unhooked his seatbelt and stepped onto the stretch of concrete path that led to the door of the manor.

"Waylon! Waylon, over here!" The nurse called from across the way as she was assisting Burns into the spacious backseat of the limousine. "Hurry up; we're going to be late!"

The rush went unappreciated as the man was wracked with spurts of jealousy and fury from witnessing what he should have been doing. And how that smug look of gratitude upon the elder's wrinkled face made his heart ooze with curious distaste! He'd worked his entire life for that man – every day since his youth he'd taken care of each underhanded scheme, of every unreasonable demand, of all the demeaning acts that created the monster that was slowly rearing its ugly head – and he'd only gotten so much as a "work harder" or a "nobody likes a suck-up, Smithers". If it weren't for the planted seed of a twisted, imaginary romance he'd conjured, Smithers would have hated the both of them.

"Be right there," he murmured, knowing his words would ring unheard whether he whispered or yelled them.

With a brisk pace in his steps, Waylon approached the fair, young woman and the contradicting older man. His breaths were labored pants as the jog had taken its toll on his suddenly fragile heart, and his brow knitted with envy as the woman sashayed toward the drivers' seat.

"Uh, I'll drive. I think I can get us there just in time if I take the interstate."

"Well, alright."

The nurse handed over the keys that draped from a well-filed and polished nail. She forced a feeble smile toward the man despite the uncomfortable tension that formed a rift betwixt them and scurried into the passengers' seat.

* * *

"Damnation! I'm not some baby who needs constant vigilance!" Burns snapped as his arms folded across his protruding chest, which had grown slimmer from the days of his lack of appetite. He turned his nose up at his assistant, resenting Smithers' efforts to coax him from the car and into the building he'd grown to despise. "I don't need you escorting me somewhere that's a mere two feet in front of me!"

"Sir, it's hospital policy that all patients are brought in and out by wheelchair," Waylon explained in the tone of a mother attempting to not lose patience with an uncooperative child. "So, please, just get the chair."

The gaze that linked Burns' eyes with the wheelchair was the perfect replica of how Smithers gazed upon the nurse – hating its existence with neither a care nor clue as to why. The elder grumbled a string of old-timey swears as his lip protruded with reluctance, but nevertheless, he exited the vehicle one extended, boney leg at a time. His hooked nose turned upward from the chair as he began to walk toward the automatic doors of the hospital.

"Mr. Burns, get back here!"

"Silence, Waylon! I know what I'm doing-,"

An all too familiar voice from the sliding door piped up, "Mr. Burns, just where do you think you're going?" A flimsy chuckle emitted from the nurse as she mockingly scolded and escorted Burns to the wheelchair, "now you know the rules, so you get your little tushie in that chair, mister. I've already signed you in."

The patient's eyes brightened and gleamed as they fell upon the woman; Burns chuckled with the giddiness of a schoolboy before cooperatively taking his seat in the chair, "yes, yes, of course. Mustn't break hospital policy."

"Honestly, Waylon, I don't know what you mean about Mr. Burns being a handful."

"Handful, eh, Smithers?" Burns pressed with a smug smirk curling at his lips as his icy stare focused upon the flustered man that gripped the handles of the wheelchair.

"Aha, just a little friendly office humor, sir," Waylon forced through a laugh that held a heavy contrast next to the malicious glare he burned into the nurse.

A simple nod, "oho, I see, having a laugh at old Burnsie, are you? Well, see that it doesn't happen again."

"Dually noted."

* * *

Hibbert's pen drummed against the stack of papers that were scattered messily atop the desk. Out of boredom, he slowly began to shift the pen around in deliberate swirls and tapped it against his chin and the tip of his nose. He sighed as he placed the pen atop the surface of the desk and thumped his fingertips on the papers.

The creaking of the door to his office opening drew him into an upright position and forced a cheery smile to graze his face.

"Dr. Hibbert," one of the assisting physicians announced as she opened the door to allow the trio to enter the office, "your ten-thirty is here."

"Wonderful, send them in, send them in," he urged happily as his boredom was alleviated. He nodded respectively to each of the people who entered his office, his eyes focusing heavily upon Burns. "Hello, Mr. Burns, how are we feeling this morning?"

The elderly man cleared his throat with a scoff, which brought about a small series of stifled coughs and phlegm. Burns' arms folded over his chest as his blackened pupils bore frigid daggers into the doctor that sat across from him.

"Oh," he began with a delicate sarcasm lacing about his words, "just fine, but, then again, I'm no doctor." Burns heaved a weighty breath before letting his shoulders round in a slump toward the floor. "I'm also not one for beating around the bush, so don't try to sugarcoat whatever it is those results have to say."

Hibbert's brows arched and his eyes trailed to Smithers, who wilted and anxiously rubbed against his elbow, "you didn't tell him?"

"Well, I-,"

Burns rushed a palm to hush whatever it was that Waylon would provide as a disgraceful excuse, "tell me what?"

The medic sputtered for a moment as he was placed into the unexpected position he'd assumed was already discussed, "I… hate to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Burns, but you do indeed have cancer. Now, I would suggest we begin with radiation therapy to shrink the tumors before beginning chemothera-,"

"No! Absolutely not!"

Waylon's eyes widened at the blatant refusal that boisterously cleared from his boss' throat and discontinued the calmness Hibbert had managed to retain, "sir, what are you saying?"

"Are you deaf, Smithers?" Burns snapped bitterly as his frail hands splayed across the desk and knocked several papers to the floor. "I'm not subjecting myself to all this poking and prodding hullabaloo! It's not as though I haven't pulled through worse."

"But, Mr. Burns, you'll… you'll…."

"Die? Well, we've all got to go sometime, now don't we?"

"Sir," Waylon spoke up with an anxious quiver to his voice as his chest ached from the agonizingly slow beats of his heart, "please, listen to reason! What's a couple of rounds of radiation when it means your health?"

The tension between the bickering men was sliced by the icy stare that the elder shot toward his lackey. He slammed his fists upon the desk and childishly stomped his foot upon the floor to express his disapproval.

"And what proof do you have that it would work? I've been working around radiation for over forty years, and did it provide any protection?"

"It's a different kind of radi-,"

"Hush! I won't have it," Burns interjected as he turned swiftly upon his heel and strolled toward the door of the office, nudging his head toward the nurse and then back toward the door. "Ackhem, if you'd be so kind as to take me home…."

The woman's ruby lips pursed in disapproval and her hands wrung at an invisible cloth while she spoke, "Mr. Burns, I've handled many cases just like yours, and I can assure you that you'll have the best care here. The radiation will work, you just have to give it a chance."

"I see," the man hissed as the sense of betrayal stung against his taste buds, "they've pulled you in on this little pyramid scheme, too, have they? Well, I'll have no part of it. Now, either one of you nincompoops take me home or I'll drive myself."

Smithers took no hesitation as he shoved his body from the chair only to be halted by the doctor, who hadn't provided much contribution to the conversation until that point.

"Waylon, I really need you to stay here," he spoke in that atypically-depressing tone that had a way of sending Waylon's heart sailing into the pits of his darkness terrors. "I'm sure the nurse can handle him from here."

"Absolutely!" She added in a blithesome tone that held an air of phoniness within it. She clambered from her own chair and placed her hands atop Burns' sharpened shoulders, steering the man out of the office. "We'll just be outside in the car."

* * *

The air in the room was suddenly sticky with worry, the reapers of the underworld seeming to cradle it in their clutches. There was scarcely enough sufficient air to keep Waylon's lung inflated and his blood circulating; he collapsed deeper into the seat of his chair as Hibbert stared at him with an expression that could crumble hearts of stone.

Waylon's leg apprehensively bounced as he tried to temper his breathing with a sigh to no avail. His breath was robbed from him by his emotions pounding at the floodgates of his need to stay composed. His head fell heavy into his hands and he grew faint.

"Waylon, are you alright?" Hibbert pressed with concern as he strolled from behind the desk and placed a comforting hand upon one of the other's broad shoulders.

"F-fine," came the sputtered reply as the shoulder trembled beneath the cold hand. "Just tell me what you called me here for."

There wasn't much point in candying what was obviously grim and tarnished, so Hibbert returned to his seat behind the desk and took a brief moment to collect the papers.

He sighed, "the cancer that Burns has is one of the most aggressive I've seen. It spreads fast, and once that happens there isn't much we can do. I was hoping we could start radiation within the week, but unless you can convince him to go through with it, it's out of my hands."

"He won't listen… the stubborn old coot. Ugh, I didn't mean that!"

"Stop beating yourself up there, Waylon. All you can do is talk to him, if he still refuses then at least you tried."

Smithers glared at the doctor but his voice flowed with a softness that proved his downfall, "how much time does he have if he doesn't go through with it?"

How much easier it would have been to lace the estimated time of a human life with sugar and all things nice! It certainly wouldn't have caused that sour look upon Hibbert's face.

"Oh, I'd say about a month… but who's to really say? You never know."

Waylon scoffed in furious disbelief and grumbled, "yeah, you never know…."

* * *

His head slung downward as his aching neck seemed in refusal to carry it upright. His heart had seemed to have fallen from his shoe somewhere between the waiting room and the long stretch of pavement that led to the parking lot. Waylon grimaced as he gained a slight bit of courage to glance upward to face a combative Burns – there was no such greeting.

"I know we parked right here..." He muttered and spun about as though it would conjure the missing vehicle. His brows twisted from their confused arches and etched into knitted fury. He stomped the ground as betrayal and abandonment fluttered in his already viciously damaged heart. "I can't believe it! He left me here! And that… that _floozy_ let him!"

As wrath bubbled through the blood that had returned to circulating around his body, the vibration of his cell phone caught his attention. He rummaged through his pants' pocket and withdrew the phone, the livid nature of his mood nearly robbing him of his ability to focus on the text he had received:

 _New Text Message from Moe:_

 _Please tell me youse ain't dead or somethin's._

The faintest of delicate smiles tugged at the corners of Waylon's tightly pursed lips. Nervousness replaced whatever ire lingered, and his fingers swiftly worked at dialing the number of the text's sender. A series of rings that created impatience was ended by the clicking of the bartender's phone being answered.

"Hello?"

"Moe? C-can I ask you for a favor?"

* * *

"May as well have ox blood running through those veins," I added, "You're as  
stubborn as one."

― Katherine McIntyre, An Airship Named Desire


	18. Refusals and Revelations

"Was I bitter?

Absolutely.

Hurt?

You bet your sweet ass I was hurt.

Who doesn't feel a part of their heart break at rejection.

You ask yourself every question you can think of, what, why, how come, and then your sadness turns to anger.

That's my favorite part.

It drives me, feeds me, and makes one hell of a story."

― Jennifer Salaiz

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

Refusals and Revelations

Moments were few in the time it took for Waylon to be greeted by the clunky heap of junk that had been escorting him about quite often over the past weeks. The bartender that had somehow become a constant part of each and every aspect of his life was perched at the wheel, an annoyed scowl etched upon his face. Moe's expression soften only slenderly when his eyes were bestowed upon Waylon, who forced a decrepit smile whilst approaching the tarnished vehicle.

Smithers rapped at the window, hoping it wouldn't shatter upon contact, and began to speak when the glass was rolled into its home within the door, "thanks for coming to get me, Moe."

The bartender's rounded, slouched shoulders shrugged as he strained a crooked grin and reached across the seats to open the passengers' side door for the other.

"Ehh, don't mentions it. S'not like I had anythin's betta ta do." Moe returned to his upright position, hands reverting to grip the wheel, and waited for Waylon to climb into the passengers' seat; Waylon's indecipherable expression, one that was peculiarly soft and seemingly-loving, merely gazed upon the driver as he continued to stand in the hospital's crowded parking lot. "Uh, youse gettin' in or whats?"

"Hmm?" Another comment without much thought to birth it flitted from Waylon's chest as his stare took his thoughts away from the situation that had only moments prior so sorely spurned him. "Oh! Y-yeah, sorry, I was thinking about something else."

Moe gave a nod of understanding and turned his regard upon Waylon, who'd finally taken his place in the opposite seat, "so, where's to?"

* * *

The nurse bustled about the manor to tend to the annoyed and needy man, who was frantically fuming as he paced about his expansive bedroom.

"Mr. Burns, please, you need your rest."

"Hush!" The elderly tyrant quickly and severely scolded the woman, his icy stare focused upon the well-polished floor. He sauntered a few paces in one direction and then a few in the other, his anger seeping from each click of his shoes. "I'm a grown man, I know what I need and when I need it."

"But-," but a single word was all the woman could manage before her voice was overshadowed by the blaring chimes of the doorbell traveling up the stairs from the front door.

"Blast! Whoever it is, get rid of them!" Burns barked, running a hand through his silk-thin hair as he sat upon his bed in contemplation. He sat there for a moment in his man-made oblivion before feeling a set of concerned eyes resting upon his slight frame; his head cocked swiftly toward the woman's gaze and his brow knitted in frustration. Another aggravating song from the doorbell only caused his irritation to bubble closer to the surface, causing him to snap roughly, "well?! Go see who it is, or you can leave with them."

The nurse jumped at the serious tone and speedily turned upon her heels to scurry down the staircase. Her face was paled and flustered as she rushed toward the door before the visitor could take their leave. She hastily adjusted her uniform and hair and forced a professional smile as she opened the door; her pitiful eyes fell upon her patient's assistant and her hand rushed to cover her mouth as she instantly realized her mistakes.

"Oh, Waylon! I am so, so sorry!" She gushed in a shrill tone as she gestured for the man to enter the home. "I got so busy taking care of Mr. Burns that I completely forgot you were still at the hos-,"

"It doesn't matter," Waylon interjected with a twinge of rudeness, which he excused by nodding his head apologetically as he stalked into the mansion. "Sorry. Um, how's he doing?"

"Well…."

An abrupt booming of a hiss-laden voice carried itself down the stairs and penetrated the ears of the discomposed patrons.

"How long does it take to send someone away, woman?!"

"Oh good, he's awake," Smithers beamed with cautious promise as he began his ascent up the curled flight of stairs, ignoring the woman's protests that he should drop any topics of illness or treatment and her begs to leave the subject well enough alone. "Mr. Burns," he spoke with a stern clear of his throat despite the nervous bile that coated the sides of his esophagus, "you have to listen to me."

"I don't _have_ to do anything, Smithers," Burns scowled grumpily before focusing his attention on the mousey nurse that stood apprehensively in the doorway. "And as for you, I thought I told you to get rid of any visitors."

"Sir," Smithers interrupted the nurse's efforts to speak, leaving her to chew upon her lower lip in a fretful manner, "normally I would never go against you, but this is your _life_ we're talking about; I can't just sit here and watch you die because you're too stubborn to-," Waylon nibbled upon his lip and instantly bit back the words that brought daggers to his boss' stormy eyes, "um, I mean, I just…. Won't you at least try the treatment?"

"Why?" The stubbornness of an ox bore into the powerhouse's voice as his arms folded defiantly across his gangly chest. "And pay thousands of dollars for pain and suffering that is only inevitable? I should think not."

"But, what if it works?"

"Oh-ho," Burns chuckled in a disturbingly heart-wrenching sort of way, hands resting upon his chest with index fingers connected in a tormenting little tower, "what I'd give to be as naif as you, Smithers. I've been around a long time, and I know the inner workings of those medical "professionals"; face reality, my dear man, it's a treatment – not a cure."

Waylon's lips parted softly as though to speak, but the wrinkled palm that greeted his vision force-fed his words back down his gullet, causing him to sigh as his oxygen seemed to thin.

"Now, I'll have no more of this treatment nonsense."

"Mr. Burns, plea-,"

A threatening bark to contrast the once low-pitched calmness, "hush! I'm a man of my word and I mean what I say. Now, as the young lady said, I need my rest."

"Sir-,"

"Smithers, one more word and I'll have your job!"

Waylon slumped with hefty shoulders that longed to see him upon the floor. His lungs pumped concrete fragments of anxiety throughout his chest, weighing him even further toward the ground. A deep sigh of the pathetic nature revealed his all too common reluctance to defy the obstinate man.

As he gazed at Burns' withering body, watching it wilt and slowly succumbing to death, a spark of confidence struck Smithers with a jolt. His jaw tightened, teeth clenched for a moment before permitting words to pass over them.

"I only want what's best for you, sir, and that's to go back and have them do what needs to be done."

A brief silence created a rift of shocked tension betwixt the group before the conversation could carry on.

"Very well then," the statement that brought a glimmer of hope to the eyes of the young ward was peppered with anguish as it was completed, "you're fired."

"Wh-what?"

It was in that moment of witnessing the former assistant double over in the pain of emotional turmoil that the nurse stepped into the conversation, "Mr. Burns, Waylon only wants to see that you get better."

"Silence, or I'll throw you both out."

Washy eyes behind fogged glasses found their way upon the nurse's flushed-with-concern face. Waylon shook his head, which spun as the elder's words played round in a demonic symphony, and stalked toward the door with a frown that he desperately attempted to coil into a fraud of a smile.

"D-don't argue with him, he needs someone to care for him," he whispered to the woman in passing as she observed his departure from the room, frowning as his travel down the stairs was insurmountably woeful.

* * *

Impatience flooded Moe's senses as he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. He could have left, seeing that Waylon's car was parked in the well-kept lawn of the billionaire's estate, but something – or perhaps someone – kept him lingering in the driveway just beyond the gates. A faint whispering of his conscious told him that the troubled man behind those doors would be unable to handle another abandonment, and so Moe sat, albeit impatiently, behind the wheel with a sour look of waiting scrawled along his face.

Half-lidded eyes of boredom expanded with momentary excitement as the doors of the manor cracked open after its eternity of stillness. Based solely upon the demeanor at which the man began to approach the car forced Moe to realize something had gone awry, the beautiful house telling no secrets of the pain and anguish that resided within its walls. He mocked his previous motions to open the passengers' side door and his face scrunched with distaste as eyes transfixed upon the translucent daubs of water staining the corner's of Waylon's eyes.

"Aw jeez," the bartender grumbled with a scowl as Waylon fell into the passengers' seat, losing a battle between him and those salty droplets of weakness, "da hells he do now? He yells at youse again?"

"Obviously!" The passenger cried as his face blushed with pent up anger and trauma. "That's all he ever does! And, what makes it even better, he fired me… again. I swear, Moe, I'm never good enough for him!"

The shouting lowered to a muffled strain as clenched sobs clawed raw patches into Smithers' throat, "maybe…." A sigh, an exhale of lead from lungs refusing to perform their most basic of duties, "I don't know, maybe I'm just not good enough for anyone."

"Don't talk like dats!"

The response was a spat of fury, one of pure firmness and unwavering, that hadn't been the one Waylon had expected, as revealed by his teary eyes widening in confusion.

"W-why not?" Smithers returned, teeth pressing painfully against each other and burrowing them deeper into gums. "And why do you care? Why do you suddenly care so damn much about what happens to me? I'm not one of those slackers that wastes all my time – and money - in your bar."

Moe's brow furrowed as his head snapped in the other's direction, "youse damn right, youse not! You're my friend, Waylon; I don't needs ya money ta cares."

How many times must Waylon damn that man for warming his heart with unintentional words of complimentary such as those? A constant war raging between the reluctance to lean upon and become attached to another and the longing to ease the emptiness of a broken soul. Had he'd not been considering ways he could warp the cards life had dealt him into a hand that would bring about his own demise, perhaps he would have smiled or at least been moved by the words from the taverner beside him. Instead, suspicion settled upon his mind like dust blowing through the most desolate of deserts, his heart being salted with mistrust.

"Right…." He scoffed as he snarled at the littered floorboard of the junky vehicle, "you're only saying that because you feel sorry for me. I don't need your pity, Moe – I just need for all this to be over."

Vagueness – such a broad strand of words when so much clutter had come to fill their lives and, in turn, their minds.

"What do youse mean by dats?" Moe questioned, an uneasiness suiting his innards as he feared he knew the solution. "Because if youse means what I think youse means, den youse can fo'get about its."

"How many times have I said that to you?"

"And I'm still alives, ain't I?"

"Look, I appreciate the sympathy," Smithers began as he pushed his glasses to rest atop the mess of off-brunette hair and kneaded at the bridge of his nose, "but I should get home."

Tears finally won over the man's will, trickling down his reddened face as he began to shuffle about in his seat, attempting to open the door of the car until the sharp jolt of it being put into drive halted his actions.

"What are you doing?" He groaned with grievance as his icy, tear-stained stare rested upon Moe's face.

"Takin' youse home," the bartender replied with little emotion as he focused deadly upon the road. "I know dat look, Waylon, and I'm not lettin's youse go home and do somethin's stupid."

An in an instance, Smithers made a revelation with a plain conviction, "I can take care of myself."

Moe chuckled faintly at the unintended irony, "youse just as stubborn as old Burns dere."

"Am not!" The argument earned Waylon a rather humorous expression from the driver, which caused him to wilt in his seat and his arms to fold across his chest. "Okay, okay, you've made your point. Just take me home."

* * *

"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."

―Kahlil Gibran


	19. Twice Too Many

"It was one thing to make a mistake; it was another thing to keep making it.

I knew what happened when you let yourself get close to someone, when you started to believe they loved you: you'd be disappointed.

Depend on someone, and you might as well admit you're going to be crushed, because when you really needed them, they wouldn't be there.

Either that, or you'd confide in them and you added to their problems.

All you ever really had was yourself, and that sort of sucked if you were less than reliable."

― Jodi Picoult, Handle with Care

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

Twice Too Many

Uncomfortableness poisoned the fusty air that rustled about the tiny apartment. The furniture had never seemed quite so cramped and the walls never so close together. Every fiber of the room's existence seemed bent on smothering the two men, who gawkily lounged upon the plush couch, residing within. It wasn't an unfamiliar situation, but it was one that no one could ever adapt to or learn to trust.

There are often only two things one can do in such a predicament – remain seated in a never-ending purgatory of uncomfortable stillness, or drink; drinking always seemed to be the more common of the two. However, many patrons oftentimes succumb to hours' worth of pointless dawdling before alcohol would eventually be nudged by one or the other.

"Um," Waylon began as the first to speak out amidst the silence, "thanks for bringing me home, but you don't have to stay, you know. I'm not going to…" his voice lowered to a monotone whisper as his eyes drifted shamefully to the floor, "… do anything."

The tale-tell sign of a lie, at least in Moe's opinion, was when a man was unable to look another in the eye. And as Waylon's hands moved to fumble with his glasses and straighten the crooked, violet bowtie curved about his neck, Moe knew his suspicion's had logical foundation.

He shrugged and slumped further into the cushion, "somehows, I don't believes dat."

The taller man's hands instantly rushed from the bowtie and into his lap, restraining themselves from further revealing their owner's deceit. Waylon coughed out his anxieties as his mind set to work on finding the words that would ease him out of a difficult situation.

"Well, I mean, I wasn't planning on do-," his hands didn't allow him to finish for they rapidly set back to wringing the tie. Waylon sighed with disappointment in himself as his hands had gotten him into trouble once again, "I'm fine… really. I don't need a babysitter; besides, I don't think you're exactly qualified."

"Ay, I's ain't babysittin's, but I can go gets ya bottle," Moe added with a swift snicker in hopes of lightening the overcast clouds of moodiness that infiltrated the room. He stood from the couch and pilfered about the kitchen, which he had learned well from many nights that were spent about the apartment during the brief business venture he'd shared with the other. The bartender rummaged through the refrigerator and did what every bartender does best – supplying drinks to the lonely souls of a Godforsaken town. Moe smirked as he returned, tossing the bottle of chilled booze at the visually-conflicted man on the couch. "Here, drink up."

"You think booze is the answer to everything," Waylon muttered with a bittersweet titter reluctantly forcing past his teeth. He shook his head in mock disappointment as he fumbled with the bottle in his hands, nervously debating on whether the alcohol was part of the problem or the solution – perhaps it was both.

"Yeah, and so's do youse and everybody else in dis town," a simple chortle and a swig from a bottle preceded the final tidbit of information; "otherwise I'd be out of a jobs."

While many responses toyed at the back of his throat, Waylon found himself creeping downward into the couch and the impending silence once again, and he took a deep gulp from the bottle he was given to bide his time. His thumbs drummed the sides of the long-neck bottle as he grasped for a way to prevent the breath-stealing stillness from wedging between them once more. He shifted awkwardly, cleared his throat in preparation to speak, and then bit his lip when the words ran cowardly back down his gullet.

Despite what many assumed and what Waylon had hoped in that moment, Moe was no fool. He watched as the other showed the tale-tell signs of anxiety, body oozing the tension into the air, and he took a rather abrasive approach to compensate for Smithers' cowardice.

"So's, Burns is a real jerk-off, huh?"

The expected fury that was anticipated by them both never surfaced, replaced by an awkwardly-twisted grin with a sharp, contrasting sigh, "I just can't believe he left me there like that. I can't believe he fired me – well, I can, but not now," Smithers shook his head and burned his throat with the alcohol as his voice lowered just as his head had into his hands. "You know, I always knew he was going to die eventually, but I always sort of hoped when that time came, he'd realize. I guess it was all wishful thinking, to think he'd actually treat me like… like he cared."

Moe sighed as he gazed with pity upon the man, hesitantly placing a sympathetic hand upon Waylon's broad, slouched shoulder, "well, it's like I saids, Burns doesn't care about nothin's."

Sympathy and pity – two human concepts of affection that Waylon had so deeply come to despise; how curious it was that the caring and loving attention he'd always craved would come to be coupled by such distain. However, as he had done with many of the medical staff that tried to offer some type of solace, he didn't shrug away from the warmth of the bartender's hand.

"Um," Waylon began, unsure if words were still of existence as he pondered for a reply, "I'm s-sorry, Moe…?" Had it been a statement? Had it been a question? It seemed to be yet another unsolvable puzzle to weigh heavily upon the former-assistant's tarnished mind.

"Uh, fo' whats?"

He hadn't expected to get that far, having anticipated a stiff chuckle followed by another bout of seemingly endless quietness. Smithers' eyes, darkened and heavy, held a glimmer of brief startle as unintelligible gurgles crawled from his throat and into the air before gaining their grasp upon spoken language, "a-ah, for… well, for everything. You have your own problems; you shouldn't have to worry about mine, too. I know I haven't been the easiest person to put up with lately."

"Ay, I ran a business widya, remembers? I've seen youse worse befo'."

A lighthearted laugh amidst the pain, "gee, thanks."

How odd - how odd it was that the outer world could seem so at peace – quiet, calm – while the people that sat blank-faced were so often a muddled and chaotic bunch. Even the sanest of people, those who appear emotionless and unfazed by life's many off-putting curiosities, were just as crazy, as loony, as mad as that of a person screaming aloud toward the Heavens. Internally, everyone was screaming, some just had a better playing face than others.

Moe, while it was no secret that he was of many emotional woes and oftentimes an abyss of the emotions he'd choked back over the dreadful years, was one who held a strong face. His jaw clenched and a smile masked the little hatreds that simmered beneath the surface; the main hatred he harbored was for Monty Burns, and that weighed heavily upon his mind as he stole another glance at Waylon.

"Ay, Waylon…?" He instigated, a burning question lingering within the pause he took. Those eyes that turned to his, teary yet cradling a strange joy behind coke-bottle glasses, caused his heart to suffer palpitations that should have surely been fatal. Moe swallowed the thumping organ that latched mercilessly onto the back of his tongue and he anxiously tugged at the collar of his shirt. "Uh, i-is it hot in here to youse or whats?"

"… that's what you wanted to ask me?" Waylon retorted with an arched brow, noticing the sudden cold sweats that beaded at Moe's brow. Worry, a constant companion it seemed, festered in Smithers' chest as he swiftly, instinctively pressed the back of his hand to the other's dampened forehead. "Are you alright, Moe? You seem… I don't know, clammy? Maybe you should go home and get some re-,"

"I'm fine!" Moe regretfully snapped in a rush, the touch of the concerned man's hand only worsening the painful throbs of his heart threatening to crack each and every rib. "It, uh, s'probably just da alcohols. I just ain't used ta high-quality stuffs, I guess."

"High-quality?" Smithers scoffed a chortle through his nose and snubbed the bottle he clutched for a moment before giving into the temptation of another swallow. "Ha, hardly! It was four dollars at the grocery store."

"Which is fo' dollas mo' dan what I pay fo' my stash back at da bars," the barkeeper stated, mocking the snort that Waylon had given earlier. "Da place has really gone downhill since youse left. I hasta admit," he paused with an anxious flit of a laugh as his hand hesitantly and of its own accord traveled to Waylon's knee, "things were a lot betta wid youse dere. Youse was kinda like my little housewife – cleanin' and naggin' at me about all da crud under da bar."

The touch of the hand upon his knee only further flustered the feelings stirring in the pit of Waylon's stomach, his face flushing softly as he glanced away with a shrug.

"Heh, it was pretty nice, wasn't it?" He rhetorically asked as his hand absent-mindedly moved to splay atop the other's. "We made a pretty good team."

"Yeah…."

Their movements, their touches, their startling closeness – it all compounded the air and suffocated the men. It had to be asphyxiation – a lack of oxygen to the brain – that fueled their motives of that moment, for there was hardly enough alcohol in their systems to suppress their knowledge of what they were doing, what they were _choosing_ to do. But, no, neither of them would willing admit to those terrifying heart flutters or those swarming blurbs of thoughts; neither of them would admit that they were willing revisiting an accidental encounter of yesterdays.

Moe slid closer, his breath heavy upon his lips as the warmth of Waylon's face suddenly radiated onto his. Their faces blushed as they each took several sips from their bottles, each twistedly hoping that, perhaps, they could once again blame alcohol for their actions, their shameful need and desperation for some type of affection. Desperation sealed with a liquor-flavored kiss and sinful touches scorching upon patches of flesh – that was enough of an excuse, a good enough reason to make a mistake twice-over. After all, what was the point of fighting urges any longer when the outcome would always end the same - with a broken heart, a failing liver, and a fully-loaded gun cocked beneath a trembling mandible? What was the use in fighting against their sexual urges when, either way, they'd cave either into feelings of passion or those of disgust for one another? Perhaps it was worth another heated romp in a room of stale air and minds filled with clutter; it would satisfy the heart for the moment, give a temporary high, and when the bliss faded things would go back to the normality of life – painful and humdrum.

Waylon was the first to break one of the many kisses thieved by his counterpart, hands trembling as they fought to wrap around tightly-matted clumps of Moe's casually unruly, gummy hair. Smithers' breath fell uneven upon the other's chest, which had somehow become exposed in a moment of their blind engagements, as he spoke, "I, uh, I have to say, Moe, I'm surprised you're okay with this… you are okay with this, aren't you?"

"Why wouldn't I be's?" The man atop the other smugly grunted as a crooked Cheshire grin played devilishly upon his lips, which hungrily and greedily mauled at Waylon's neck. "I gots expensive booze and I'm gettin' lucky all in da same night. Dat almost neva happens."

"Who said anything about you getting lucky?"

Damn that playful, almost teasing tone that seeped into what should have been a serious question! But, who was he kidding? The question was obsolete before its very conception. They had both tossed protecting their friendship out the window the first night they laid together, what harm could a second time possibly do? Consequences had no place in the equation of lust and emotionless sex. They'd both left their hearts broken somewhere along the path of the past; love was no longer a valid concept in the tiny world of desperate sex, convenient solace, and shared cynicism they'd created for themselves.

It seemed that whether it was fought against or easily surrendered, their feelings for each other rested somewhere between friends and lovers, and that middle ground was one of the only places in which they each found comfort and peace, even if it was merely in the most depressing of circumstances.

* * *

Morning had quickly come to sour the sweet passions of all the almost-lovers that had to awaken next to a person they had such deep ties to, yet no knot to bound them. Amongst that vast majority was Waylon, who had awakened hours before the tavern owner tightly curled in a ball of peaceful slumber. He sat upon the edge of the bed, legs swaying numbly and feet just barely grazing the floor. His forehead, still sticky with dried beads of sweat from the tumultuous night before, weighed heavily in his hands as the bridge of his nose was nestled tightly betwixt his index finger and thumb.

It hadn't seemed to be such a troubling theory when hands were roaming his lonesome flesh, but regret had wriggled into his heart, feasting upon his emotions as though it were absolutely parasitic. A mistake – one he had come to make twice in the span of a mere few weeks – a mistake is what it was; or what it should have been. Why didn't it feel like a travesty? Why did it feel so unconditionally right? The regret bubbled not from the actions themselves, but the fact that Waylon enjoyed them, the fact that he wished he could make the same mistake a million times over.

The abrupt cough from beside him caused Waylon to jump with startle and his neck to swiftly snap in the direction of the sound. Moe was groggily grumbling as he began to stir, his senses insulted by the light of a new morning, and he tried to wipe the sunshine from his vision to no avail. His eyes fluttered open as he groaned and lazily propped himself upon his elbows. He, too, jumped as the vision of Waylon's body caught him off guard as he had convinced himself the night prior was only a figment of his imagination.

"Uh, mornin's…?" He grumbled nervously, fearful of the harsh rejection and crass lashing he'd received the first time he awoke in the man's bed.

"Morning," Waylon strained as he battled against a feeble grin that toyed at the ends of his mouth. He wanted to smile, beam from ear-to-ear, but he had no time left to waste on love that never would become. The thought of another endless torch held and burning for another man he could never, _would_ never have wholeheartedly brought a frown to his face, which he found much more appropriate given the conditions. "Moe, we need to talk."

* * *

Eager fingers danced gracefully along the spines of dozens of books as Lisa strolled past them. She loved the feeling of the embossed print that some of the older ones adorned, and the aroma of dried ink and freshly ground coffee enticed her every movement. It was rare that she got to enjoy the pleasures of the little bookshop-coffeehouse fusion that was settled just on the outskirts of town, but her mother decided to treat her in celebration of the girl's latest musical success.

The only damper – her brother; Bart trailed behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets as his eyes rolled in boredom from one drab shelf to the next. "Mom, why couldn't we have gone to the arcade? This is bo-oo-oring."

Marge scolded him with a sharp glance before answering, "because _Lisa_ got the lead in the festival. The next time you get the lead of something, you can do what you want."

Lisa strolled away from the light bickering that shadowed, shaking her head at the childishness her brother often displayed yet giggling softly at how their mother so passive-aggressively handled him. She walked down the aisles of literature, stopping abruptly when she realized she had mindlessly carried herself into the coffeehouse conjoined to the bookshop. Her eyes looked around in slight panic as she found herself unable to recognize any of the faces, lost in a sea of uninviting and snobby strangers, until she glanced to a tiny booth cozied in the corner next to a large window. A familiar face awaited her there, and she hurriedly approached the acquaintance she sought sudden comfort in.

"We can't keep getting caught up in this," Waylon strained to calmly explain to the stubborn man sitting across from him. "I'm just saying that maybe we shouldn't be fooling around all the time if we don't really mean anything to each other – in that way, I mean. You understand?"

"Mr. Smithers! Mr. Smithers!" Lisa called out as she sprinted, dodging the strangers that towered over her and glared at her with distaste. Her breath was choppy as she finally reached the booth, her hands splaying atop the tabletop as she steadied her lungs enough to speak, "Mr. Smithers, wh-what are you doing h-here?"

Smithers' expression perked from its depressive structure as he gazed from Moe, who was awkwardly staring at the tabletop and twiddling his thumbs on either sides of a lukewarm coffee mug, to Lisa. His brow arched as he shifted slightly and searched the crowd for the girl's family, who was nowhere to be seen. In worry that she'd become lost, the man scooted aside and scrunched against the window, patting the seat he'd made available in gesture for her to sit.

"Lisa, what are _you_ doing here?"

Lisa had become distracted as she sat, her gaze falling upon Moe. She hadn't expected to see the bartender in such an upscale shop filled to the brim with books and overpriced coffee, but most of all she hadn't expected him to be with Smithers.

"Moe… what are you do-,"

"I swears ta God, if one mo' person says 'what are youse doin' heres', I'm goin'sta give dem whatfo'," Moe barked sharply at the child before quickly coming to regret the display, "ugh, I'm sorry dere, kid; it's nothin' personals."

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

Moe's lips formed around silent words as Waylon swiftly stepped in to prevent his former business partner from giving another sharp spat, "no! No, of course not, Moe and I were just talking, but it's nothing that can't wait," he once again hunted the crowd for a towering tuft of blue curls. "Um, where's your mother?"

"She's…" Lisa stopped as she, too, began to study the crowd, pointing in the general direction of the bookshop. "She's somewhere over there. What about Mr. Burns? How's he doing?"

A harsh scoff from the bartender earned him a swift, sharp kick to the shin and an even sharper glare from Smithers.

"Ow, da Hells was dat fo'?"

Waylon cleared his throat, blatantly ignoring the yelp, "well, _Lisa_ , I actually haven't heard too much about him since he fired me. His nurse has kept me updated on a few things, but other than that, I'm just as confused as you are."

The young girl had drawn in a breath to be followed by a sympathetic gesture, but was cut short of speaking when the raspy call of her mother carried over the chattering of the crowd and was delivered to the booth.

"Lisa! Oh, Lisa, there you are! Come on, we have to get going," she beckoned, cradling a fussy Maggie in one arm while dragging a defiant Bart across the store with the other. "It's time for Maggie's nap."

Lisa's eyes lulled back to Waylon and Moe, eyeing them with widespread pity and burdening herself with their pathetic expressions that they each attempted to mask for her sake, "I'm sorry to hear that, um," she muttered quickly as she hastily reached for a napkin and a pen that was tucked within the pocket of the jacket she wore due to the sudden shift of the seasons, "here," she added as she passed the napkin to a befuddled Waylon, "it's my phone number. Call me when you find out something."

"Lisa!"

"Coming, Mom!" The child exclaimed politely as she scrambled away, waving at the men. "See you later, Mr. Smithers!"

When the girl had left, Moe gave a low-pitched chuckle in the form of a sigh, "what am I? Chopped livers?"

"Oh, Moe," Smithers interjected as he desperately struggled not to crack a smile that would leave him once again feeling a betrayal toward his beloved boss, who he'd come to harbor a reluctant bitter taste for. He heaved a deep breath before his body slumped in the booth and his demeanor returned to its former seriousness. "So… where do we go from here?"

"Da hell if I knows. But I knows one thing fo' sure, I ain't goin' nowheres."

The past came to harmonize with the present as Moe's hand inched across the table and rested atop the other's for but a brief yet crucial moment before pulling away when eyes began to wander their way. Yet, even without the warmth of the skin, the electricity from the touch burrowed its way into the veins of Smithers' hand, causing his mind and body to become overwhelmed with a flood of every emotion.

Waylon scoffed slightly out of fear; how many times had he heard that? How many times had his search for love led to that promise only for it to be shattered upon the floor when morning came? Yet Moe was there not once, but twice, and still he lingered through the insanity that had been bestowed upon them in recent times.

"Yeah, well, we'll see. You'll get tired of me eventually."

"Gah, would youse stop talkin' like dat all da times? Sheesh, even I ain't dat down on myself. I said I ain't goin' nowheres, and I mean I ain't goin' nowheres!" Moe shrank into the booth as his shouting gained the unwanted attention of loitering customers. Embarrassed, he slinked out of the booth and gestured for Waylon to follow, "now, uh, let's get outta heres. All dese fancy-schmancy business people are givin' me da creeps."

* * *

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."

― C.G. Jung


	20. Changing of a Season

"It was like when you make a move in chess and just as you take your finger off the piece, you see the mistake you've made, and there's this panic because you don't know yet the scale of disaster you've left yourself open to."

― Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go

* * *

Chapter Twenty

Changing of a Season

The first day of autumn had finally crept along Springfield, evident by the many multicolored leaves that were scattered, dead upon the ground. Lisa held a content smile, enjoying the crispness of a fresh season's beginnings, as she sat nestled between the roots of an oversized tree in the backyard of the Simpson family's household. She held a pen in one hand and the underside of her log with the other, while the book was balanced in her lap. She read over a few pages from the weeks prior, which she'd mainly used to catalog Burns' rapid decline as Smithers kept her updated as best he could since their meeting at the coffeehouse.

The faint smile weakened as she recounted the findings, and her pen set to paper as she began to write her latest entry:

 _Dear Log,_

 _It's been a few days since I last spoke to Mr. Smithers. I really wish he hadn't gotten fired; it'd be so much easier to keep track of Mr. Burns' condition if he hadn't. I've heard a few things here and there, but mostly from my dad when he complains about having the new boss who's working in Burns' place. Although, I can probably guess that his prognosis isn't looking any better…._

Lisa dropped her pen at her side for a moment as she once again skimmed to earlier pages of the book. Her eyes carefully wandered over the calculations and the expansive list of symptoms. She sighed, taking note on how quickly Burns' condition had begun to deteriorate in such short time. The girl picked up her pen and turned back to the current page, continuing where she'd left off:

 _I heard he can't even get out of bed anymore. It's so odd to see a man like Mr. Burns become so fragile – even at his age. Mr. Smithers told me the nurse said she constantly has to change the bandages from Burns' surgery because the wounds keep becoming infected. She said that he won't leave them alone, and that medicine can't help him if he won't help himself._

 _From what I've gathered, Dr. Hibbert did a pretty good job estimating Mr. Burns' decline. I just hope that Mr. Smithers can prepare himself for what's to come in such a short time…._

"Lisa!" The distant and familiar voice of her mother called from the backdoor of the house. A blur of yellow caught Lisa's attention as Marge waved a gesturing hand toward their home. "You've got a phone call; it's Mr. Smithers!"

In a careless moment, Lisa slammed her log shut, a few pages becoming bent in the process, and shoved the pen in her coat's pocket. She scampered to her feet, curious as to what news came along with the phone call, and she hurried to where her mother stood. The young girl took the phone from the woman, wrapping a finger betwixt the knots in the cord as she spoke.

"Thanks, Mom," she whispered with her hand over the receiver before turning to speak into the device. "Hello?"

"Lisa? Hi, it's Mr. Smithers," Waylon greeted politely as he toyed with the cord of his own phone. He leaned against the counter of his kitchen, pulling the phone away briefly to slightly scold the other man in the room, "Moe, you can't just rinse them. You have to wipe them off or you'll leave spots."

Lisa failed to stifle the small chuckle at the muffled scolding, "yeah, I know. Um, have you heard anything else?"

"How'd I gets stuck doin' dis anyways?"

"Moe, shush," Smithers scolded once again as he returned his attention to the phone and the person waiting patiently on the other end. "Sorry about that. Um, yeah, I just spoke with the nurse a few minutes ago," he added as he reached for the miniature notepad that he'd jotted the latest information on, "well, they've brought in hospice, so that's never a good sign. They said he's got…" He paused as the annoying ache of his heart beginning to quiver struck him just as it had when the nurse had given him the news. "They said he's got maybe two weeks left; they put in a feeding tube since he's refusing to eat, so they're hoping that'll help… b-but I don't really see the point…."

* * *

Much more time had passed than either party had realized as Moe finally began to complain of the seemingly-endless conversation filled with apologies about being human and pity for an elderly man who should have died decades ago as most so often did.

Waylon shooed the other, trying to focus on the young girl's words and the will he had not to cry. Perhaps the tears would have won if Lisa weren't on the phone and Moe in the room, but they were forced away and swallowed roughly as Waylon's voice cracked with the tears.

"Y-yeah, I'm sure he'll be fine, too," at this point it seemed more of a lie than a cliché to ease the tragic news – he was lying to himself just as much as Lisa was lying to herself about the man. They all knew Mr. Burns wouldn't be "fine", they all knew the stubborn old man would meet his fate sooner rather than later, and everyone but Smithers seemed to know how he was going to react.

It appeared everyone had suddenly become so concerned for his well-being, when they typically left him alone to run amok in a drunken fit. It seemed that he was the only one that would be taken by total surprise by his own reactions, as Moe and Lisa appeared to know all too well the suffering that lay ahead for him.

Smithers drew in a deep breath, attempting and failing to cleanse his body of the emotions that rotted deep within him, and he spoke numbly yet shakily as an obnoxious beeping buzzed through the phone, cutting off various syllables of Lisa's reply, "ah, sorry, Lisa, I'll have to call you back; someone's trying to get through."

"Okay," the young girl said in understanding, smiling despite the tears that pooled at the corners of her eyes as she heard the emotionlessness of the man's broken voice, "goodbye, Mr. Smithers."

Lisa's heart sank at the words she spoke, fearing that "goodbye" was no longer just a brief pardon. She fretted slightly and swiped the salty brine on the sleeve of her coat. She jumped faintly as a hand was pressed atop her shoulder, her mother smiling with pity down upon her.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" Marge asked as she broadened her strained grin. "You know, this really isn't something you should be so worried about."

"B-but, Mom," Lisa choked softly before tightening her jaw and perfecting the straight face she'd seen Moe use many times before, "what if something bad happens? What's going to happen to Mr. Smithers if something _does_ happen to Mr. Burns?"

"Lisa," Marge began with a somewhat stern yet sympathetic sigh, "Mr. Smithers is a grown man, he'll be just fine. He knows what's going to happ-,"

"But, he's in denial!"

"- happen," the woman continued without missing a beat as she tugged her child into a motherly embrace. "Trust me; he'll probably be a lot happier knowing that Mr. Burns is out of pain. Now, stop worrying about this," she grinned a bit more genuinely as she pointed to the flyer hanging proudly from the refrigerator, "you've got a parade to practice for. It's coming up, you know?"

Lisa sniffled and bit back the response that gnawed at her tongue. She swallowed the acidic words and replaced them with a nod and a sigh, "y-yeah, you're right, Mom. Mr. Largo really wants me to come up with something great…."

"And you will!"

* * *

"Sheesh, are youse still on dat pho-,"

As the bartender grew more impatient and swiped at the phone, Smithers turned away and nervously answered the call that had seemed so desperate to gain his attention.

"Stop it, Moe, this is important!" He barked before hearing a woman's small voice on the other line. He cleared his throat as he tried to excuse the rude and abrupt nature of his tone. "Sorry, um, wh-who's this?"

As though he didn't know; as though he wasn't used to that obnoxious little voice, that obnoxious little woman that had swooped in and taken his place. The woman that stole his job from him – stole _Mr. Burns_ from him. He loathed her, but she was his only resource, his only connection to his beloved boss, and so he tolerated her. He had to wonder if that was how Burns had dealt with him year after year, simmering with hate but simply tolerating him for personal benefit.

"Waylon," the woman commenced hysterically as one of her hands fisted her atypically unkempt hair. She nervously turned on her heel to face the bed, where a groaning and withering heap of what once was the most influential man in Springfield laid, and became entangled in the cord of the phone, "you… you have to come over here. It's urgent!"

"Would youse give me da-,"

Waylon shushed Moe once again, but didn't shoo him as he'd done prior. His chest froze as he absentmindedly allowed his fingers to wrap anxiously about Moe's wrist. He gulped, painfully and dryly longing for words that didn't seem to do any justice in describing the agony that plagued him.

"Wh-why? What happened?" He stammered, breath falling choppy as his heart sailed into his chest, leaving a trail of burning static that waved in the nausea of anxiety. "Wha-what's going on? You said he h-had two weeks."

"Just get over here! Burns' is in bad shape," the woman snapped to some extent, her fear causing her to become snippy and bitter (in total contrast of her normally bubbly personality). "He keeps asking for you, and I just don't know what to do. He won't _let_ me do anything!"

The thought of Burns beckoning for him normally would have brought a smile to his face, but as Waylon listened to the distress of the woman's voice, he could merely panic. Emotions evaded him as his heart had fallen from his chest and shattered upon the floor, and he hadn't noticed his lack of oxygen until he gasped for air.

"T-tell him I'll be right there."

Waylon hadn't noticed the tears that daubed at his eyes until Moe passed him a tissue from the glove compartment of the cramped car. Though he longed to deny the tissue and refuse the fact that he was crying, his body seemed suddenly disjointed from his mind and his fingers curved limply around the fabric.

"Ca-can't you drive any faster?" He spat dimly as he glared at the speedometer from over his counterpart's shoulder. The brackish brine stung his eyes as he tried desperately to read the number correctly, failing and slumping – defeated - into the passengers' seat.

"I'm's goin' as fast as I can, jeez," Moe barked in a whisper, holding back his typical wrath as he watched Waylon's futile attempts to not shatter as his heart had already done years ago. "Youse just relax ova dere. I don't want youse passin' out or somethin's."

"I'm fi-ine."

"You're nots."

"Really, Moe, I am… I can ha-andle this," Waylon continued, his chest throbbing as his lungs quivered and his words were chopped by his hyperventilation. A panic attack was setting in as it so often did, but never had he worked so hard to disguise the sheer agony that shredded his innards. "Just step on it, would you?"

As his eyes drifted downward toward the floorboard, Waylon's attention became caught on the fact that his hand was clasped delicately, soothingly beneath one of Moe's. Had they been holding hands the entire time, or had he'd become so numb that he hadn't managed to realize? Either way, in spite of the blood rushing in his ears and the thumping of his heart in the lower pits of his stomach, a feeble grin came to play amongst the tears that painted his cheeks.

"W-what are you doing?"

"What?" A brief glance to their hands and a vivid blush as the hand slowly slid back to the steering wheel answered. "Oh, uh, dat… dat was just… your hand was in da ways. Dis car's a stick-shift and youse was blockin' da gears."

"Ri-right…."

* * *

The men were welcomed by a flushed woman, who stood at the entrance of the lavish doorway, ushering them toward the mansion before they had even exited the vehicle. Waylon was the first to catch a glimpse of her, and he waited for but a moment before kicking the door open and clamoring from the car, hurrying toward the nurse as best as his wobbly legs would allow. His heart clouted loudly in his ears, nearly overshadowing the blonde's tearful cries.

"I've tried everything! I've tried to give him medicine, food, water – he won't have any of it! Y-you've got to talk some sense into that stubborn old man!"

Whether it was purposefully or accidental, the man provided no response and simply pushed past the nurse and elbowed his way into the manor. His thoughts jumbled with his emotions, creating what felt to be a near-fatal arrhythmia knocking against his ribs, as he darted sloppily up the winding staircase that led to the elder man's bedroom.

"Mr. Burns?" He worrisomely called through the pants from his brisk pace and the sobs clinging to the sides of his throat. "Sir?"

"Sm-Smithers," an atypically weak, strained voice from the shell of a man withering upon the bed stammered. A crooked, skeletal finger curved in gesture for the other, falling flat shortly after as the motion grew too tiresome. "C-come here, my dear man. There's som-omthing I have to say."

* * *

"Life seems sometimes like nothing more than a series of losses, from beginning to end.

That's the given.

How you respond to those losses, what you make of what's left, that's the part you have to make up as you go."

― Katharine Weber, The Music Lesson


	21. The Final Resolve

"What I need is the dandelion in the spring.

The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction.

The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses.

That it can be good again."

― Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One

The Final Resolve

Breathing had become a burden as Waylon struggled with the task. He faltered, his heart mocking the actions, as he inched cautiously toward the elder. Burns' icy gaze, usually so piercing and spine-chilling, was dulled to that of two lumps of nearly-lifeless charcoal, yet it remained impatient nonetheless.

"Hu-hurry up, Smithers! I ha-aven't got the time for you to be lollygagging around!" Burns barked before his speech was stolen and replaced with a series of chest-straining coughs, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, sir…" Waylon muttered beneath his breath as the ruby trail from the other's lower lip to chin caught his eye. He adjusted his glasses as he grabbed a fistful of napkins from the elegantly-crafted nightstand. Through sheer instinct, he daubed the napkins against Burns' chin, soaking away the droplets of precious blood that had only been replenished a few months prior. "Sir, why wouldn't you just take the damn treatment? W-why do you always have to be so bullheaded?!"

"Oh, stop with the theatrics, Waylon," the ailing man heaved as he, while for vastly different reasons, too, struggled to breathe. "Now, s-sit down, as I said, I have something to say."

"Right away, sir, just let me grab a pe-,"

"That won't be necessary," Burns interrupted as he ran a limp hand along the bandages wrapped around his balding head before letting the hand plummet back to the bed. "I don't need you jotting any of what I'm about to say down, don't want everyone thinking old Monty was a softy in the face of death. Now, just sit down and listen."

Despite the befuddlement that momentarily contracted his anguish, Waylon did as he always had and complied with the demand. He sat, one leg crossed upon the other and hands along the guardrail that had been situated around the bed, and gave his undivided attention to the other.

"What's this about, sir? I thought I'd be the last person you'd want to see right now."

"Waylon," Monty sharply exhaled in a mixture of physical agony and mental exhaustion, "you have no moxie… look at you, sitting there, pouting in self-pity, while I – C. Montgomery Brans-,"

"Burns-," Smithers corrected, ignoring the jab at his character that he hadn't quite expected.

"Yes, yes, of course, I was merely testing you," the elder fibbed through a cough before continuing, "I – C. Montgomery _Burns_ – am the one who is dying."

Dying – Smithers hated that word. The word itself was dead as every sentence speaking of dying was often short-lived, edited by those unwilling to speak of such a drab and dreary subject. Dying, dead, death – it was all the same; they were all things that made life seem completely, utterly pointless. What did it matter what was done when it was to all end with the same result – death. And yet, in that thought, there was a comfort; for one day, Smithers, too, would be dead and he'd finally be Burns' equal. Death was the only true form of equality, after all.

A sharp gasp from his former boss drew Waylon's attention back to reality, which had suddenly become as dry as the autumn air that resided within the manor. The younger of the two paled, worry and stress replacing the blood that flowed through his veins. He began to tremble, quaking from the thoughts of death and despair that crept up along his spine.

"Wh-what is blazes is _he_ doing here?!" Burns demanded feebly, a finger jutted toward the shadowy figure in his doorway that came to light as Moe casually strolled into the room.

"Mo-oo-oe, I thought you were going to wait for me downstairs."

"And miss all da actions?" Moe attempted to joke to restore some lightheartedness to the room. His efforts fell short and his eyes fell toward the floor as he awkwardly scuffed the polished marble with the ball of his foot. "Uh, sorry, dat was a little insensitives…."

"You think?" The opposite scoffed as he clutched the bridge of his nose betwixt his fingers. "Sir, I am so sorry about this. Moe's just here for support."

Another scoff flitted in the air, this time from Burns' rapidly collapsing chest, "support? Ha, phooey!" The elder gave a silent glare to the scummy-looking sight of the bartender looming behind his former assistant. "Ackhem, I was trying to have a few parting words with ole Mr. Smithers here. So, if you'd be so kind as to _get out_."

"Listen here, Bur-,"

Moe's sharp protest was interrupt by Waylon's impulsive grip upon his hand. The touch, yet one of firm warning, was warm in spite of the horrific chill of looming death in the air.

"Um, Moe, just don't get in the way, okay?"

Burns eyed the two – their subtle contacts, their uncomfortably confused gazes at each other, and the way their chests froze whenever one would brush against the other – and a tiny smirk sprawled along his horribly hollowed face.

"Well, I must say, Smithers, you got over me rather quickly," he chuckled casually, ignoring the coughs that sputtered blood from his chest. "And here I thought you'd never let those wild fantasies of yours go."

Waylon's breath hitched, his grip upon the barkeep's hand tightening, and he sputtered. His eyes grew wide behind his glasses, which slipped down to rest upon the tip of his nose with aide from the nervous sweat beading upon his face, and his lower lip quivered. His mind was reeling, each tiny fantasy he'd ever had flashing before his eyes as though death were shortly to take him as well.

"S-sir… how did you…? I mean… you knew? You knew about how I felt for you? And you knew this _whole_ time?"

Was he astonished? Absolutely. Was he hurt? Slightly. Was he livid?… No. The anger that should have burned from his core and spurted fire upon the unsuspecting town never did arise. The agony of decades spent in silent yearning, spent with unsatisfied urges and rejected cravings all were for nothing – and somehow, despite how he'd anticipated himself to react, Smithers was fine. There was no hellish fury to burn in, no pools of tears to drown in, no drunken slurs to numb the pain at the expense of his liver – there was simply a subtle twinge of relief.

"Indeed, I did," Burns giggled rather giddily as though it had been some schoolboy secret he'd been keeping. "And I'm glad to see you've finally given up on that nonsense. Look at me, old enough to be your grandfather – you're a twisted man, Smithers. A damn fine worker, but a twisted man nonetheless."

"Ay, don't talks about Waylon dat ways!"

"Moe, it's okay…. Sir, what did you just say?"

Waylon could scarcely believe his ears, thinking he must have mistaken the tiny gem of encouragement netted within the usual insults.

"Youse deaf all of suddens? He said youse was a twisted ma-,"

"No, no, not that part!" Smithers shushed Moe, who was beginning to resent the constant shunning he'd been receiving the majority of the day. "Mr. Burns, what did you just say about me being a good worker?"

Burns cursed to himself, having hoped his kindness had been either unheard or ignored. His stare lost a bit of its cheeky luster and his voice dropped to a begrudging whisper, "you heard right, Smithers. You're a damn fine worker, any man would be lucky to have you for an assistant."

Breath was thieved from Waylon as his thoughts were scattered, years of confusion and painful waiting boiled down to a singular moment in which he was set free from his burdens. It was as though the confirmation, just the concept that there was some real depth behind what he'd burned a candle at both ends for, the affirmation that he wasn't completely insane gave him some comfort, some strength to let go. And every minute feeling he'd harbored for the man dying before his eyes was suddenly lifted from his body and he could breathe for what seemed the first time since life's beginning.

"Oh my God," Waylon muttered, grasping at his chest as his mouth fell agape. His heart, through the swift and final break, had begun to stitch itself to be whole once again.

Moe flushed with concern as the other clutched his chest, "ay, youse alright dere, Waylon?" Silence followed coupled with a blank stare behind coke-bottle specs. "Waylon!"

Smithers took no time for reaction, only for pure action itself. He stood from the chair, it nearly collapsing to the floor from the abrupt movements, and he roughly grabbed hold of Burns' hand, shaking it vigorously.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you! That's all I ever wanted… needed… to hear!"

"Ow! Ca-calm yourself, man!" The elder gagged violently as his feeble hand was nearly crushed beneath the younger, more muscular man's intense grip. "I'm a dying man; I don't need you shaking me about and rushing things along."

"Right," Waylon agreed with a nod and blush as he returned to his seat, his hand still holding a limp grip on his former boss', "sorry. There's just one thing I don't understand – if you knew, why didn't you ever say anything?"

A scoff of a laugh, "I simply didn't feel the same. Why bother pondering unreturned feelings, especially when there was so much other work to be done? I was a man of money and power, Waylon, not of love and passion. As I said before, you were a damn fine worker - a pleasure to do business with - but my feelings never were anything but business toward you. And it seems you've adjusted just fine."

Monty's gaze gestured to Moe, who blushed awkwardly at what the dying man insinuated.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he stammered, fumbling over himself a bit before using the chair where Waylon sat to keep his balance, "youse got da wrong idea dere, Burnsie; it ain't like dats. Waylon and me – we's just friends."

"Oh-ho, you two are rich! Why, if it weren't for you keeping him so busy, Waylon may have actually been on time once in a while! Going at each other like jackrabbits."

Smithers and Moe were near mirror images of stunned expressions, shaking their heads in denial despite the redness sprawling along their faces revealing their every mistake.

"How'd youse know about dats?"

"Moe!"

"What?!"

Waylon groaned softly as he hid his face in embarrassment, "Mr. Burns, is there anything you need?" It was an awkward shot at shifting an even more awkward conversation.

"Yes – yes, there is one other thing," Monty started, his voice dropping octaves as a blaring fit of coughs struck him and his fingers wrapped loosely around Waylon's. "You… well, Smithers, you did a good job. It's been an honor working alongside you all these years."

The former assistant nodded, a beaming smile stretched from one ear to the other.

"Thank you, sir," he muttered softly as he fought back the tears that suddenly stung like broken shards of crystals amongst his reddened eyes. "Is there anything else?"

Silence – it had crept silently into the room, a thief of pure invisibility. Waylon's smile slowly began to fade as his thumb brushed nervously along the black-and-purple mess of veins that was Burns' hand, hoping to provoke a response – there was none.

"Sir…?"

His heart dropped, static buzzing in his ears as he inhaled a deep sigh and sharply spat it back into the chill of the room. His eyes fell shut for a moment as he shifted away from his chair, managing to fumble to his feet.

"W-well," he choked upon a sob as he spoke, his head lowered to hide the tears that had begun to streak his face, "I… I guess that's that…."

Moe's heart, too, dropped; in spite of the hatred he harbored for the lifeless man that lay helplessly in the bed, it pained him to see that mask that Waylon strapped on. He hesitated for but a moment before gaining the courage to wrap his arms awkwardly around the taller man's frame, pulling him into a friendly, caring embrace.

"Aw, Waylon, I'm… I'm really sorry dere. I knows dis is tough on ya's."

Smithers sniffled and coughed as his own emotions tried to throttle him, and he politely pulled slightly from the embrace.

"I… I have to go tell the nurse."

"Youse just leave dats ta me," Moe replied, ushering the other from the room with a passing glance back at the corpse that mere moments before had been carrying on with them. The barkeep assisted Waylon into one of the many lined-up chairs in the expansive hall, patting the broad shoulders before setting off to find the nurse in question, "youse stay here and try ta relax. I'll's be right backs."

* * *

Lisa tapped her foot as she tried to keep rhythm with the notes she'd scrawled along the paper.

"Ugh! That's not right!" She shouted, ripping the defenseless page from her composition book and tossing it spitefully to the floor. "Maybe…" she pondered as she quickly formed a slew of different notes. "No, that won't work either. Oh, why did I have to get the le-,"

Her voice was crudely halted when her ear caught a fuzzy news report wafting from the television downstairs.

"Our latest story: Mr. Charles Montgomery Burns – prestigious owner and operator of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant – has passed away. Reporters are on the scene as the millionaire's body is being transported from his extensive estate and to the county morgue. In other news – jaundice: what it says for all of our livers-,"

Lisa had hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping over a few of Maggie's toys along the way, and lunged for the remote, eyes wide as she noticed it was clutched in her brother's hand.

"Wh-what did they just say about Mr. Burns?"

Bart's face held an unusual sign of remorse as he anxiously scratched at his elbow with the end of the remote, "uh, he died, Lis…. I'm really sorry."

"No. How? When?" She stammered questions that held no logical answer as she managed to wrestle the remote from her brother and turn the television's channel back over to the news.

* * *

Smithers trembled heavily as he fruitlessly attempted to avoid contact with the many cameras that were being shoved in his face from various different directions and angles. Microphones were soon to follow as many reporters swarmed the vacillating man, who Moe was helping to be escorted through the swarm of announcers.

"Mr. Smithers! Mr. Smithers!" One of the female newscasters exclaimed, imposing a microphone up to Waylon's quaking lips. "Is it true that you're suing the hospital for failure to properly treat your boss?"

"What? No! Absolutely not!" Waylon grumbled in frustration as he swatted at the microphone, lowering it a bit in order to speak. "I can assure all of you that the hospital did everything in their power to sa-,"

"Mr. Smithers, question – who will be taking over the plant in Burns' abscense?"

"Well, we have a great manager that may be assuming the posi-,"

"Ooh, Mr. Smithers, will the pending lawsuit over Mr. Burns' nuclear waste distribution proceed despite his death?"

"It… well… I don't think… it…"

Overwhelmed with anxiety and the urge to vomit, Waylon struggled to remain standing and found himself unable to finish speaking. His shoulders slumped beneath Moe's shepherding hands, alerting the other to the fact that Waylon was near collapsing.

"Alright! Alright!" Moe bellowed, whacking a few microphones out of the way and pressing his palm over one of the cameras, causing it to broadcast a blur of colors to the citizens of Springfield. "Nothin' ta see heres! Ain't youse people got any respects fo' da dead around heres, sheesh?!"

One of the newscasters swiftly moved to recover the story, determined not to let the local tavern owner's outburst ruin a breaking story – regardless of how insensitive it may have seemed.

"U-um, it is reported that Monty Burns has passed away from complications stemming from an aggressive form of brain cancer that was diagnosed a few months ago. We'll keep you updated on this story as we gather more information. Until then, I'm your ancho-,"

Lisa grunted in disgust as she flicked off the television, fuming at how the media had already begun their animalistic feast upon the elder's death with no regard to the grieving parties involved.

"Uh, you okay, Lis…?"

"Fine…." The girl retorted with a snip as she slammed the remote into the unsuspecting cushion of the couch. "I just can't believe they'd do that to poor Mr. Smithers. After all he's been through, and they can't give him two seconds to cope with any of it! I'm telling you, Bart, they're savages!"

Bart nodded in agreement, unwilling to protest against his sibling when she was in such an uproar. He shifted against the cushion as he pushed himself up from the couch and headed toward the kitchen in desperate need to remove himself from the situation.

"You want some soda or something?"

The eight-year-old scoffed as her arms folded across her chest, "no… I have to go finish my piece for that stupid parade next week."

"You mean you aren't going to go running to your bo-oo-oyfriend?" The boy teased in a sympathetic tone that contradicted his very meaning. He watched as Lisa stomped up the staircase in disdain, crushing and destroying one of Maggie's toys in the process. "What did I say? Lisa… c'mon, Lisa! I was just trying to help!"

* * *

"Life has no meaning.

Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life.

It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer."

― Joseph Campbell


	22. Hard to Break

"The best cure for one's own grief and pain was worrying about the well-being of someone else."

― Drew Karpyshyn, Children of Fire

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hard to Break

Each member of the Simpson family was dressed in their finest clothing as they anxiously awaited watching Lisa perform the solo she'd worked on without pause over the few days after Burns' death – each member except for Lisa. The young girl stood in front of her mirror, turning slightly at the hips to observe the black dress she wore, making sure the white buttons along the front were properly adjusted. Despite the animosity that scorched along her throat, she smiled at the simplicity of the dress.

An impatient knock at her bedroom door demanded her attention, her brother's voice soon assaulting her ears amongst the knocking.

"Lisa, Mom said to hurry up! We're gonna be late," the boy somewhat groaned as his arms folded impatiently across his chest.

Marge had begun to walk down the hall, busily straightening her husband's tie as she swiftly managed to walk backwards until it was set to her liking. Homer groaned and whined at the tie, tugging at it no sooner than his wife had attuned it.

"Ugh, Homie," the blue-haired woman grumbled as she ran her fingers through her never-ending sea of curls, wanting everything to seem perfect. She then patted her son atop his head, using it as a way to somewhat flatten the typically spikey locks, before tapping the door of her daughter's room and speaking through it. "Lisa, get your saxophone! We're going to be late if we don't hurry up! You don't want to miss the big parade, do you?"

The young girl did as she was told and grabbed the weighty case with her saxophone nestled inside. She threw the case over her shoulder and adjusted the dress as the case tugged it askew. Her hands worked quickly at readjusting the string of pearls around her neck before she moved to exit the room, taking her family by surprise.

"Um… Lisa? Honey, is that what you're wearing?" Marge asked with a fret, which she tried to mask with a delicate, half-supportive chuckle. "Not that there's anything wrong with it – it's very nice. But, don't you think something more… colorful… would look better? Something like your band uniform?"

The last question was pressing, waving an air of gesturing heat down Lisa's neck, yet the young girl kept her composure as she planted her feet firmly to the ground.

"I'm not going to that dumb parade," she informed matter-of-factly as she nonchalantly began her descent down the stairs.

Homer's brow arched as his pride was bruised by the headstrong youngster's announcement, and his heart beat fast as he remembered the wagers he made with other Springfield residents that his daughter would be the greatest musician to come from the tiny town. He quickly passed a groggy Maggie to her mother and briskly walked to catch up with Lisa.

"What are you talking about? You _have_ to; it's really important for me – I mean, for you… it's really important for _you_ ," he urged frantically as he glanced back to his wife, who was just as baffled as the rest of the clan.

"I said I'm not going," Lisa retorted just as coolly as she'd done before, turning to face her family. She sighed as she shook her composition book about in the air. "Mr. Largo said my symphony would be perfect…" Homer's face lit up, his hopes dashed as a young finger was held to gesture for him to hush. " _If_ we were going to be performing at a funeral; well, now there's funeral. And, besides that, I think my music will be more appreciated there."

Homer's neck twisted back to his wife once again, "Marge, talk to _your_ daughter," he huffed.

The mother nodded and placed a loving hand upon Lisa's shoulder after passing the infant Maggie back to her father. She smiled, feeling her chest swell with pride at the caring and considerate child she'd raised when her first had not resulted in such endearing traits.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do? Mr. Smithers might want some time alone to think about things."

Alone – that's what Lisa had feared. She worried herself each day that passed since Burns' death that Smithers would be left alone to do all the little terrors that plagued her mind. Had she not seen him about town every now and again, oftentimes with a concerned Moe in tow, she would have sworn Burns wasn't the only one to meet the reaper of fate.

She nodded with affirmation then shook her head in rejection of the statement.

"I think Mr. Smithers will be okay with it."

"Yeah," Bart pressed with a snicker as he skipped in an exaggerated manner toward his younger sister, "because Lisa lo-oo-oves Mr. Smithers."

"I do _not_! He's just the only one that understands!" Lisa snapped as her mind had briefly forgotten her parents' presences in the room. "I mean, he's the only one that didn't treat me like a child. He didn't talk to me like I was stupid."

"Hey," Homer interjected with a twinge of offense, "we don't talk to you like you're stupid."

"Dad, where do babies come from?" She asked with her lips cocked in a smirk as she knew the answer she would receive would be anything but the truth she already knew.

Homer gasped and stuttered for a moment before gathering his words, "u-uh, the stork…? Yeah, the stork!" He gathered his keys from a nearby dish before rapidly removing himself from the subject, stepping one foot outside of the family's home. "What are you slow-pokes waiting around here for? We've got a funeral to get to," he tacked on with an anxious chuckle.

* * *

The room was incredibly small, room enough only for the two chairs and the casket nestled within it. It practically forced people together, be it through their grieving or just the closeness of the drably, pastel-pink walls.

Waylon trembled softly, fighting back tears as he strained to keep his eyes opened, for blinking would cause the pools in the corners of them to flood over. He sighed, each breath layering concrete within his lungs, which struggled to keep time with his erratically beating heart. He stood near the casket, daring to gaze upon the fragile frame, the remains of what once was a life. He observed the body, essentially a casket within another as there was no life to be found.

Moe awkwardly fiddled with the tail of the jacket that Waylon had forced him to wear, sitting in one of the two chairs that were pressed against the wall farthest from the casket. He watched helplessly and hopelessly as his friend tempted emotion by watching over the corpse.

"I… I can't believe nobody showed up," Waylon muttered with a pang of antagonism in his voice, "so many people kissed his ass to get in his will, and _none_ of them showed! I'm not even in the damn will!"

"Waylon…."

"I mean, I slaved myself for that man and he left me _nothing_!" He spoke over the other's atypically gentle whisper of a voice, and he furiously slammed his hand on the altar that the guestbook sat atop. "Not that I wanted anything – it's just the principle of the thing. At least one of those no-good, lazy workers of his could have shown up."

It didn't take long for Moe to stand from his chair and stroll over to the crumbling man leaning against the altar. He rested his hands firmly on Waylon's shoulders, escorting the former assistant back to the chairs, sitting him in one before taking a seat of his own.

"Well, Burns wasn't exactly da best guy in da worlds. Youse can't honestly be dat suprised dat no ones showed up."

"They could at least have enough respect to send flowers or something," the taller of the two grumbled under his breath and his head lowered into his hands. The tears grew more difficult to bite back as his body quaked with the urge to cry, the only reason preventing them from falling being the narrow sunlight that abruptly poured in from the door adjacent to the room.

"Ay, look dere, Waylon, somebodies showed up after alls," the bartender mused with as joyful of a tone as he could muster.

"It's probably just Reverend Lovejoy; he's supposed to lead this whole thi-,"

"Mr. Smithers?" The tiny voice of a young girl piped up, causing the man's heavy head to lift from his hands and stare at her with wide eyes.

"L-little Lisa? Wh-what are you doing here?" Smithers sniffled as he pushed the cuff of his finest suit up to reveal his watch; the distant sound of off-key music helping him know he had the correct date and time of the town's festival. "Why aren't you at the parade? Everyone else is."

The final bit was spoken bitterly and resentfully as Waylon thought of all the joy and laughter everyone else in town was indulging while he sat in a cramped funeral home, waiting for his beloved boss' body to be lowered into the ground.

"Um, Mr. Largo didn't really like the music I wrote, so I thought I'd come check on you." It was then that Lisa caught a glimpse of Moe, smiling gently as she felt relieved by the fact that Waylon had someone to support him and keep an eye on him. She was on the verge of greeting the other until her family entered the room.

The pudgy man that entered the room beamed when he saw the local bartender sitting before him, "Moe! Boy, am I glad you're here, I thought this place was gonna be filled with people I don't care about." Smithers coughed in gesture. "Ah! Mr. Smithers! Um, h-hi…"

Marge, a mortified witness to her husband's crude behavior, stepped toward the sitting men with a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sorry about Homer," she interjected with a snippy look toward her husband, "what he means is: we're all really sorry to hear about Mr. Burns."

"I do?"

"Homer."

"I mean, yeah. Yeah, real sorry," Homer muttered awkwardly as he excused himself from the room, Maggie in his arms and Bart shadowing behind him with an expression of pitiful boredom.

Marge weakly grinned as her husband and two of her three children left. She placed a tender hand on Waylon's shoulder, patting it with care.

"If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to call us. Ooh, I know, we could all get together for dinner sometime. Would you like that?"

A sniffle was the first response before the man was able to cough out a verbal answer, "s-sure, why not? Uh, I hate to seem rude or anything, but I'm fine. I don't want anyone going out of their way on account of me and my problems."

"Oh, it's no trouble! Really, I insist!"

The heavy, unreadable expression coupled with the teary eyes that fogged up behind the glasses resting before them signaled for Marge to stop speaking, and the woman turned upon the heel of her abnormally black shoe when she heard a throat clear from the door of the room.

"Alright," Lovejoy dully greeted as he beheld the group of uncomfortable people, "if you folks are ready, we can say a few words on Mr. Burns' behalf and then head out to the burial grounds."

* * *

Autumn leaves were scattered in melancholy, yet stunning blends of vibrant oranges, yellows, reds, and browns. How beautiful they were, even in their death – how appropriate for such an occasion. The gentle breeze carried them along the trail leading up to the burial ground, where the small gathering were huddled beneath a makeshift tent provided by the funeral home.

Many heads were hung low as the reverend standing over the casket droned on; quoting verses from his Bible and adlibbing a few scriptures to suit the situation. The man-of-the-cloth shut his Bible, tucked it beneath his arm, and he shook the hands of the people standing in front of him, wishing them well.

The casket was lowered into the depths of the ground, which happily consumed another skeleton for its dirty closet. As the coffin was lowered, Waylon could no longer fight back the tears; they tore him to shreds, piercing his eyes until they could no longer withstand the searing pain, and the little droplets of saltwater trickled down his face. In a lapse of judgment, the man's tear-painted and paled face became buried within Moe's chest and fingers clung desperately to the fabric, which still carried a scent of alcohol around its collar.

"U-uh," Moe fumbled as he noticed Homer eyeing the scene with confusion. "What are youse lookin' at? Ain't ya ever seen a man cries befo'?"

Homer's eyes drifted from the two as he scoffed from the brutality of Moe's tone. The stubby man's eye was drawn to the flashes of colors marching down the street as the parade carried on just beyond the cemetery. He whined to himself as he looked from the many happy faces and then down at his daughter, who was supposed to be amongst them. "Aw…"

Lisa took note of her father's disappointment, sighing as she pardoned herself from the crowd, "I'll be right back. I have to go get something from the car."

* * *

Before the child could return, her family had already separated from Waylon and Moe and begun searching for family members buried in the cemetery. She rolled her eyes, but cleared her throat as her thoughts returned to that of the two men that remained at the freshly-polished, marble tombstone.

"Excuse me," she spoke up with cautious confidence, smiling feebly at the adults. Waylon's head arose from Moe's shirt, his glasses askew and his face a reddened, tear-stained mess, but he forced a tiny grin for the youngster's sake. Lisa nodded as she set her saxophone case upon the ground and removed the instrument, "um, I hope you don't mind, but I thought I'd play the piece that I was going to play for the parade. So, I hope it's okay," she said with a soft, nervous chuckle as her lips formed to the reed and her fingers to the keys of the instrument.

Such blissfully bittersweet music poured from the sax and into the crisp air, captivating even the most musically illiterate. It captured the depths of emotions that words themselves could never fully encompass, and such a masterpiece spilled forth from the soul of an eight-year-old!

As the inspiring notes flitted by on the delicate breeze, tangoing with the leaves that fluttered to the dying grass below, Waylon found himself clutching to the other man's shirt. The musical notes seemed to float away with his logical thoughts as he shifted closer to Moe, resting his head upon the bartender's slender chest, absentmindedly nuzzling the liquor-scented fabric.

"Uh, wh-what'cha doin' deres, Waylon?" Moe whispered with a slight chortle and a deep blush, wanting to keep the conversation as low-key as possible. Despite the awkwardness that bubbled in his chest, however, he didn't pull away from the touch.

"Hmm?" Waylon hummed, lost in a world engulfed by smooth jazz music, before realizing his actions and retracting from them with a scarlet face. "Oh! S-sorry, Moe… I… I don't know what came over me."

All those little yearnings, those nagging urges, each miniscule desire and fantasy that fueled the fire of the torch Waylon had carried for his former boss abruptly began to resurface, yet his flame no longer burned for the man buried within the ground. The flicker in his heart was a different candle entirely, one that, to some degree, returned his affections and acknowledged his existence. And with a gaze of self-reflection and befuddlement at the town's local, unlucky-in-love bartender, Waylon found himself traveling along a horrifically familiar road. That want to be needed, that need to be wanted, that insatiable desire to love and be loved – it all rang loudly within his ears, drowning out the music and the wind. In that moment, Waylon found himself damned to the same fate – that fate just happened to now fall with the heart of another. In that moment, Waylon was damned to face that somewhere along the road of letting go of Burns, he'd taken hold of Moe. In that moment, Waylon was damned to his worst habit of all – falling for men he could never have wholeheartedly and completely all to his own. In that moment, Waylon realized some habits are hard to break.

* * *

END

* * *

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."

― Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul


End file.
